


all the stars were crashing

by sarcangel



Series: lame superheroes au [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Multi, OT5, lame superheroes au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 19:21:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14063796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcangel/pseuds/sarcangel
Summary: “We should practice,” Louis says. He’s got a faraway look in his eye that doesn’t bode well for anyone, based on Zayn’s newly-formed knowledge of Louis. “Find a place, set up a schedule, all that.”“What?” Zayn says, not sure where the conversation is exactly headed anymore.“You know, in a movie - like, this would be our montage sequence,” Louis says, hands everywhere, gesturing wildly. “There’d be some song playing in the background while we spar and gain strength and -”(and lick sweat off of each other’s necks, Zayn thinks, and then you knock me to the floor and lay on me and)“Yeah, that’d be sick,” Zayn says, instead, not knowing if he’s more surprised that anything coherent comes out of his mouth or that he’s actually agreed to Louis’ awful plan.





	all the stars were crashing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexenglish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/gifts), [1000_directions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000_directions/gifts).



> For Alex, without whom (and their amazing Zayn tag, and their entire wonderful being) this would not exist at all.
> 
> For Steph, who read this whole thing and was so supportive and is also just generally lovely and talented and amazing.
> 
> And for everyone who writes fic - I've been reading fic for so long, but writing one myself 1. was a terrible decision and 2. made me love and appreciate all of you even more. <3

Zayn’s in the beginning phase of nodding off, the part where his breath starts to slow and his head gets hard to hold up, when Ealing Broadway station is announced. He jolts upright, starting to gather his things. It seems like he’s been on the tube for ages, nineteen stops and one train change - one way - to drop off his last batch of illustrations; it’s already late afternoon. He’s hungry. He’s thirsty. He checks his phone by habit, just a text from his mum. The train slows to a stop and everyone trickles out.  
  
Back in the fresh air, it’s a cool day, even for early June. He’s full of that buzzing contentedness that comes with having a project done, getting to close up the little room in his brain where the art takes up residence. The clouds hang low and he’s sure there will be rain later; it smells like exhaust and flowers. Shaking off the last of his torpor, he starts the short walk up Haven Green. The Green is busy today, despite the weather; but the grass is soft and people are itching to hang about in vests, read books on the lawn, lay with their lovers. His own fingers itch suddenly for watercolors - green is always so much more intense under the gray sky. He stops, waiting for traffic to clear enough to cross Madelay, fishing a cigarette out of his pocket; traffic is mad this time of day. He’s looking down, cupping his hand against the wind, when raised voices directly behind him catch his attention.  
  
“- _want to know_ is how long you’ve been shagging behind me back!” It’s a man’s voice, hoarse and loud. Zayn doesn’t want to look, he should be above looking, but turns anyway: human instinct.  
  
Two men and a woman are clustered a few meters away, mid-row; a couple people have slowed or outright stopped to watch. A big guy, cheeks and throat mottled red, flexing his hands open shut open shut: the shouter, presumably. The other bloke facing him off - balding, angular, hipster beard, defensive but guilty. The woman is petite, dark blonde, eyes wet but mouth resigned, whole body braced for a knock-down-drag-out fight. One of the spectators catches Zayn’s eye; he lifts his eyebrow and quirks his mouth the slightest bit at Zayn.  
  
“Leave her alone,” Bald Guy says, drawing Zayn’s attention back. Effective, notes Zayn. Lacks creativity.  
  
“Please -” starts Lady Love. Her face is a weird combination of sadness and irritation; Zayn could spend a whole day sketching the shadows in her face, what lives there. Big Bloke takes a step forward, leaning into her space - but Bald Guy intervenes, stepping in front of her.  
  
“She came to me,” Bald Guy says, either extraordinarily confident or stupid. There’s a moment of utter stillness, the briefest of seconds where everything pauses or slows down to the slowest degree. Zayn feels odd, like ice water is trickling down his neck. He blinks and the world speeds up again.  
  
Then Big Bloke is shoving Bald Guy, who yells and shoves him right back. Lady Love, bless her cheating heart, is in between them - and before Zayn knows it, he's in the middle of the heaving group of people, trying to find the center. It’s all limbs and voices and confusion; he gets his arm around the woman to pull her out and notices that he’s...glowing. His jacket is suddenly full of tiny stars, and the stars kind of blink and shine intermittently, swirling across the black leather, hypnotic but oddly soothing given that he has no earthly fucking idea what’s happening. And in that moment, in the throes of completely uncharacteristic heroics, he suddenly just wants the whole thing to stop.  
  
The fight does stop, abruptly. Zayn, breathing hard, notices that everyone is calm and staring at his jacket. Only spectator bloke, Quirky Eyebrow, is looking directly at him, all bright electric eyes and a smile that stretches across his entire face. It’s a pretty great face, Zayn notices, momentarily fixated. When Zayn smiles back, it’s as if the force of his smile physically leaves his body, whooshing out into the world. And then everyone is smiling - the quarreling lovers, the onlookers, the readers on blankets in the grass, a little dog that stops mid-walk and wriggles around on her back. Zayn feels like some kind of weird superhero and also about to puke; he staggers a bit and stares at the arm of his jacket. The lights blink out.  
  
The ground lurches. Zayn shakes his head and takes a few deep breaths, singing a couple verses of Superstition in his head while he waits to level out - in his experience, it usually takes about a song’s length to set himself to rights and it seems like the right song for the circumstances. Sounds start to return to him: the hum of traffic, laughter, the various shuffling and clinking sounds of people walking by. He takes another breath, pushing it all the way down to his diaphragm. No spots. Good. He starts moving again. From what he can tell, the sad love triangle left together for the pub, to down some pints and see what happens. Quirky Eyebrow is still there, though - oddly, seems like he’s waiting for Zayn.  
  
And maybe he is, because as Zayn starts walking past him, the guy stretches out his hands as if to touch him but stops short. “All right, mate?” The stranger asks, grasping his elbow lightly. “Look a bit green, don’t want you keeling over on my account.”  
  
“I’m alright, I think,” Zayn says, surprised by Quirky Eyebrow’s kindness. His tongue feels thick and the world is still undulating gently around him; it must show because the guy suddenly moves in closer and puts his arm around Zayn’s shoulders.  
  
“Hey, now,” says the guy, “no need to be a hero. Let’s just...” He looks around for something, scanning the pavement and nearby shops. He starts to steer Zayn towards an empty bench on the Green.  
  
Zayn just stares at him, blinking and stupid, and lets himself be led. His thoughts are sluggish, rising through the layers of his brain like that bebinca his auntie used to make for dessert at big family gatherings. Questions drift through him, lazy jellyfish. Who is this guy? Why are his eyes so blue? When was the last time he shaved? What would that stubble feel like against his neck? Focus. The guy catches him staring and blushes a little.  
  
“Sorry, lad, can’t help meself. When one of my kids looks the way you do, I just go autopilot,” he says. “I’m Louis, by the way.”  
  
“Louis,” Zayn repeats. Louis deposits him on the little bench, plopping down next to him. Zayn puts his elbows on his knees and rests his head in his hands, the jelly feeling from before returning tenfold. He’s suddenly exhausted, like every molecule in his body is crying out for sleep.  
  
“Louis,” he agrees. “And do you have a name?” Zayn swallows, tries to make sense of the question. Why does Quirky Eyebrow, pseudonym Louis, talk so much? “You have this air of mystery that’s really working for you, so I completely understand if you’re reluctant to tell me,” Louis adds, eyes crinkling down at him. Zayn wheezes out a laugh, picking his head up.  
  
“It’s Zayn, you wanker,” he says. “Don’t make me laugh right now, I’m afraid my head might spin off.”  
  
“Zayn. Of course it’s Zayn. Couldn’t be an Eric or a Matthew or a Clive, even. Nice to meet you, Zayn.” Louis sticks his hand in Zayn’s face to shake. Zayn grabs it and holds it for a moment instead. He likes the shape of Louis’ fingers in his own, their comforting weight; it’s a nice hand.  
  
“What,” Zayn licks his lips, tries again. His head feels impossibly heavy on his neck. “What did you mean before, _on my account_?”  
  
“About that,” Louis says, glancing at Zayn and rubbing the back of his neck. He suddenly seems like he’s lost that confidence that seems so innately his. “Um, I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”  
  
“What?” Zayn’s starting to feel better; his heart has resumed normal pumping operations, at least.  
  
“You know, the...extra.” Louis lifts his hand, waving it around in the air and wiggling his fingers. “I found out when I was little that I could do...stuff. Small things, it’s hard to describe.” He scratches his ear, looking up at the sky as he searches for the right words. “Like, if me parents were having a row, but the kind of row where your heart’s not really in it and you just want to make up and get to the good parts - I could do that, get them to make up.” His eyes flicker over to Zayn’s, scoot around the Green. “Or if a door is broken, about to rust through its hinges, I can do that - make it just fall off. Or if a lass is cheating, and foolish enough to show up in public with both of her lovers together, I can do that.” Zayn nods, but he’s not sure he really gets it.  
  
“Like...an outcome accelerator, maybe?” Zayn asks, reaching for his cigarettes. He plucks one out of the pack, takes his time lighting it. The flare of the lighter distracts him for a second, gives Louis time to think through his question.  
  
“Yes, fancy pants. But it doesn’t just work on situations, as much as I can tell. So like, if you’re drinking tea and it’s not strong enough, I can make it stronger.” He gives a small shrug. “I don’t think the tea is actually stronger, I think I can just make it seem...more.” He stares at Zayn’s cigarette, fingers twitching a little bit, like reflex. Zayn shakes another one out, offering it to him. Louis flashes him a smile, the big one that splits his face.  
  
“Cheers,” Louis says. Zayn holds up the lighter, flicking the flame into being. Louis cups his hand around Zayn’s to light the smoke. He can feel Louis’ exhale on his palm; it feels like his whole body shivers all over. “OK, now you.” Zayn rolls that around in his brain for a minute. He’s never actually had to put words to the thing that he can do; it’s just part of him, like a vestigial nerve or strawberry mark. How would he draw it? Like an echo wave building and bursting from his body, limply splashing against the nearest oblivious people? He takes a drag, holds it, pushes his tongue against his teeth; Louis, for a wonder, is sitting patiently, waiting for his answer.  
  
“Dunno, like. I can take what I’m feeling and...push it out of my body, sort of give it to other people.” Zayn pauses for a minute, takes a drag. “I don’t think it replaces what they are feeling, mine just gets layered on top, if that makes sense.” Louis nods, pushing his fringe out of his face. “Spent most of my life trying to hold it in, really.” Zayn stubs out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe; Louis takes a final drag and does the same.  
  
“Well. I’m fucking starving mate, let’s go get something horrifically greasy while you tell me your life story,” Louis grabs Zayn by the elbows, hauls him up off the bench. “I’ll even buy your first pint,” he looks at Zayn appraisingly. “Or white wine, or whatever shit you drink.”  
  
“Piss off,” laughs Zayn, yanking his elbows free. “But I can’t, sorry.” Louis face falls, he opens his mouth like he’s about to make an appeal. “No, no, not like that,” Zayn says. “It’s just Ramadan, I can’t eat until the sun is down.” Louis closes his mouth, rearranging his face to frown sympathetically. “But you can eat, I’ll come with, it’s completely fine.”  
  
Louis shakes his head. “Well, you need something fortifying, anyway. Is strong coffee and a joint permitted during your fast or do we have to wait until sundown for that, too?” Louis asks, deadpan.  
  
“Coffee, not. Joint, not sure.” Zayn pauses, confused. “What about your kids?”  
  
“What?” Louis asks. His face is completely perplexed, like Zayn’s just grown another eye.  
  
“Before,” Zayn waves his hand at the air behind them. “You said something about your kids getting sick or something.”  
  
“Ahh. I’m a teacher - which is a little bit like being a dad without the...dad parts, I guess,” Louis says.  
  
“Well, then,” Zayn says. “Since weed’s neither food nor beverage, think it’d be alright. More than alright. One condition, though.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Need to know your last name. So I can text it to my mum in case I’m never heard from again.”  
  
“Fair enough. It’s Tomlinson.” He watches as Zayn fires off a short text. “Oi. Turnabout is fair play.”  
  
“‘Course. It’s Malik.”  
  
“Excellent. Did you really just text your mum?” Louis cranes his neck, trying to look at Zayn’s phone.  
  
“You’ll never know, will you?” Zayn slides his phone back in his pocket, grinning over at him. “Ready?”  
  
Louis cheers, then turns serious for a moment. “Look, I know we’ve only just met and I don’t want to come on too strong, so if you’d rather not or you just want to be on your way, just say. No hard feelings, you know?” He touches Zayn’s arm, looking hopeful. For someone he’s known for less than thirty minutes, Zayn’s not sure that’s he’s ever met someone with such capacity for surprising him.  
  
“Ok,” Zayn says. His stomach gives a little lurch; he imagines the butterflies bursting out of it, a mad rush of inks and wings. Louis stares at him.  
  
“Not sure which ok you meant, there,” Louis says, chewing on the corner of his lip.  
  
“Sorry. The one where we go back to your flat and smoke...and you are also not a serial killer.” Zayn says. He feels a little twinge about not making it to the studio - but really, it’s all production work today; could do it anytime, really. He gets his phone back out and sends a quick text to Niall, begging off for the day.  
  
“All right then,” Louis says. “Onward. I’m just one stop down the line.”  
  
They walk back to the station in companionable silence. Louis points out a couple snogging relentlessly in the grass and they have a laugh; the wind plays with Louis’ hair, lifting it off his forehead like feathers. Zayn feels like he’s moving in reverse; he didn’t make it very far in the hour since he left the station. Louis is true to his word - they get out at Ealing Common, and it’s a short walk from the station to Louis’ flat on Uxbridge. He’s got a first floor unit above an estate agent’s office. It smells good outside, like roasting meat; Zayn’s stomach growls loudly.  
  
“Ah,” Louis says. “That’d be the kebob place next door.” He points to the right. “I’m well situated; those kebabs are the perfect end to a night full of bad decisions.”  
  
Louis leads him up the stairs into his flat, which is bigger than Zayn thought it would be from the outside. “Welcome to Chez Louis,” he says grandly, ushering Zayn into the sitting room. It’s small but has a loveseat and an armchair and a telly, and big windows that face the street, with some magazines and comics spread about on the coffee table. Zayn goes straight for Astonishing X-Men, Vol 1.  
  
“Gifted, sick,” Zayn says, flipping it open. Louis drops down into the couch, rummaging through the table drawer. He emerges with a small bag, triumphant. Then he looks at Zayn very seriously.  
  
“Look, if we’re going to do this, I can’t be the one doing all the talking,” Louis opens the bag and starts taking things out: a joint, a lighter, a little dog figurine. “I like you, but you’re not exactly a chatterbox. So you’ve got to help me out. Up for an icebreaker?” He pats the couch for Zayn to sit down, offering the joint to Zayn.  
  
“Cheers,” Zayn says, lighting the joint. “I’m up for it.” The familiar scratchy sweet trickle burns down his throat. He passes it to Louis, holding his breath for a few seconds while Louis formulates his question.  
  
“Let’s start with the big stuff,” Louis says, exhaling, passing back. “First rule - you can choose only one. If you could shag any marvel superhero, who would it be?” Zayn takes his time, blowing smoke up at the ceiling.  
  
“Um. Okoye and Deadpool sandwich.” Zayn says. Louis’ flat is warm enough to be comfortable; he takes off his jacket, hanging it off the back of the couch.  
  
“Points for eccentricity. Even though you’re a dirty cheater who cheats,” Louis elbows him in the ribs. “I will accept it. Fair play,” Louis hands the joint back, pulling his sleeves down a bit further over his hands.  
  
“Well?” Zayn asks, nudging Louis back with his elbow.  
  
“Winter Soldier,” Louis says, without hesitation. “I’ve a thing for fit, mysterious types, I guess,” he winks and gathers himself to stand. “Can I get you anything? Water, even?”  
  
“Soz, but I can’t,” Zayn taps his phone, checking the time. “Only a few more hours, though.”  
  
“Do you mind?” Louis starts. “I feel horrible even asking, just me mouth feels like sandpaper.” Zayn shakes his head; he doesn’t mind. Louis disappears for a minute, comes back with a bottle of water. He sits back down next to Zayn, even closer than before; puts his feet up on the table and wedges the water between his legs. Zayn hands him the joint; he’s forgotten what they were talking about.  
  
“Next question. You know already I’m a teacher; I coach footie as well. Tell me something about what you do.” Louis exhales. “I know, it’s an awful question. Just trying to even the odds.”  
  
“I do modeling,” Zayn says, staring fixedly at his knee cap. “Just wrapped a big shoot with Adidas, actually.” Louis chokes on his water a bit. He turns wide eyes on Zayn as he coughs; Zayn can feel the corner of his mouth twitch against his will.  
  
“Are you fucking with me right now?” Louis asks.  
  
“Well,” says Zayn slowly, looking up at the ceiling. He lets the full smile break through as Louis sputters.  
  
“You massive wanker!” Louis moves to punch him in the arm, but links his arm around Zayn’s neck, instead, pretends like he’s going to bite his ear.  
  
“But for real, I have a couple jobs, but one of them is freelance illustration.” He passes the joint back to Louis; it’s almost done. His brain is starting to get swirly; he’s not sure what will pour out of his mouth next. Maybe a slew of iridescent hearts, jumping everywhere like tiny frogs. Louis’ arm is still around his shoulders - not that he is paying attention, not that every nerve ending in his shoulders is humming, not that he is wondering what Louis’ mouth tastes like right now ( _probably smoky but also cool fresh water_ ). Focus. “Just turned in my most recent project today, actually.”  
  
“What on?” Louis asks, lazily tapping out a pattern on Zayn’s upper arm.  
  
“Have paper and a…?” Zayn searches but can’t find the word he’s looking for, settles on miming a squiggly mark in the air. “I’ll show you.” Louis groans but dislodges himself enough to dig the requested items out of the coffee table. He comes up with napkins and a gel pen.  
  
“Bless you, that’s perfect,” Zayn says. He leans over the table and starts to sketch, fingers moving quickly, practiced. “It was for a book about everyday poisonous flowers, and how people have misused them over the years. Like, so many flowers that we think are completely innocuous,” he finishes the first flower sketch - it’s diminutive, the small bloom somehow trembling above its leaves on a delicate stem. Then he draws an Oddish next to it. “Poisonous. Take wood anemone.” He taps on the flower. “Cute, right? Traditionally used to make medicine for all kinds of things. But every part of it is poisonous.” Louis is watching his hand with great concentration. Zayn takes another napkin, starts a new drawing. “And hellebore, one of my favorites; people used it as an emetic for their kids, probably killed as many as it cured.” He finishes the tiny lenten rose and draws a Gloom next to it. He grabs another napkin, keeps drawing. “And foxglove, of course, fully evolved - incredibly poisonous,” Louis stares at his fingers while he draws, transfixed. He finishes the foxglove, its elegant spire, drawing a Vileplume next to it. “It was fascinating, I loved it. Like, what’s the evolutionary advantage of being so beautiful but also deadly? Flowers can’t avoid being eaten by developing camouflaging or some other cloaking mechanism, they have to be beautiful to ensure pollination. So they develop these insane systems of defense.” Louis is still silent; at a momentary loss for words, apparently. He reaches out, putting the tip of his fingers on top of Zayn’s hand as Zayn shades a blossom on the foxglove. Zayn feels the tiniest trickle of cold down his neck and _justlikethat_ , he zooms from a 4 to a 7 on the Malik Scale of Relative Highness. He lays his head down on the table, face pressed into his flowers.  
  
“Shit,” Louis says, astonishment plain in every line of his face. “So many words, Zayn. I honestly didn’t know you had it in you.” Louis pokes his cheek. His face is still pressed against the napkins on the table; he’ll probably have the Vileplume tattooed on his face when he gets up. But moving seems hard - impossible even; he’d rather stare at the light haloing Louis’ face, all golden like the lamp itself is licking him. He’d like to draw that, sometime: a little lampdog running around, fetching Louis’ newspaper, getting in the rubbish bin, whinging for belly rubs. He knows he’s in over his head when he starts to feel jealous of the dog.  
  
“Bugger off,” Zayn says. Now that Louis’ not touching him, he’s losing altitude quickly, approaching level four again. “Let me try.” Zayn concentrates, imagines balling up the smoke running giddily through his system, pushes it over to Louis.  
  
“Shit,” Louis says again. He falls back against the couch, closing his eyes. “That’s about the weirdest thing’s ever happened to me.” Zayn finally picks himself up off the table, peeling the napkin from his cheek. He carefully sits back on the couch and tips his head against the cushion.  
  
“That was wicked,” Zayn agrees. “You’re like my own personal AC15.”  
  
Louis stares blankly at him.  
  
“It’s an amp?” Zayn’s not sure how to read the look on Louis’ face, he moves from hot to cold pretty fast. “Sorry, I also work in a recording studio and -“  
  
“I know what it is, you twat. I was in a band meself, wasn’t I?”  
  
“Yeah?” Zayn asks, letting his head roll/flop over to look at Louis more directly.  
  
“Wasn’t everyone at some point? We did mostly covers of Arctic Monkeys and that, a couple of original tunes,” Louis says. He’s relaxed way back into the cushion and into Zayn’s side. “I was the singer. I can play a bit of keys and guitar, as well - enough to get by, not enough to get famous.” At some point, Louis snuck his arm up around Zayn’s shoulders again. Like a cat, he’s suddenly just there, hand in Zayn’s hair, scratching lightly on his scalp; Zayn’s not even sure how or when it happened. It’s a mystery he’s not likely to solve in the forty-five seconds he has left before he dies or combusts, or transforms into sad, useless lava. With an effort, he pulls himself back into the conversation.  
  
“What were you called?” asks Zayn.  
  
“‘S the best part. Guitarist was the biggest prat, he picked it,” Louis grimaces preemptively, taking his hand out of Zayn’s hair. Zayn feels its loss acutely, even while he’s brushed by a little wave of relief. “We were called Plebeian Microwave.”  
  
Zayn shakes silently with laughter for a long time, cracks a huge yawn as it starts to wind down.  
  
“Soz, I’m knackered. Know it’s not late, but it’s been kind of a long day already, right?” Zayn asks. “Be nice to have a pause button or something, just a…” He makes a popping sound with his mouth. Louis watches him as he talks; his sharp eyes and edges have all gone soft.  
  
“Up for a movie?” Louis asks. “Have a little DVD roulette?” He tilts his head up at Zayn, arching an eyebrow in question.  
  
“I’m easy,” Zayn says. “Sounds dangerous, though. Fitting for our new lives as superheroes, I guess?”  
  
“Nah, lad. It’s just when I’m too lazy to get something else and too overwhelmed by Netflix so I watch whatever’s in. It’s got a three-disc changer.” He shrugs, grabs the zapper off the table. “Almost never put in an actual movie anymore, so I’ve no idea what’s in at any given time. Could be brilliant, could be shit.” He presses a button. “And may the odds...” he eyeballs Zayn.  
  
“...be ever in your favor.” Zayn cracks another huge yawn as the previews start. It’s always weird, this part - the countdown to new releases that are no longer new, little glimpses into the past. What made it big, what flopped, who he even was then.  
  
“Sorry, I can’t consistently remember how to skip this shit,” Louis says, putting his feet back up on the table. Their legs are pressed together on the couch, a warm spot that tethers Zayn to the moment. The previews finally finish and the menu screen appears.  
  
“Pacific Rim!” Zayn says. He’s so relaxed he can barely move, but he stirs enough to poke Louis in the arm excitedly. “I haven’t seen the original in ages, I love this movie.” Louis swats his hand away, using the exchange as an opportunity to burrow further into Zayn’s side. Zayn feels him nod against his shoulder: up and down, up and down. And then the opening sequence starts, and he is swept away.  
  
Zayn’s not sure when they fell asleep, but he wakes up and it’s darker - that slushy in between zone, not true night yet but close. The movie’s turned off. The clouds hang low, making everything heavier. His arm is pins and needles: Louis is passed out on his shoulder, still sleeping. He must have put his hood up at some point, because all Zayn can see is the ends of his hair sticking out and the steady pattern of his breathing lifting and dropping his shoulder. His hands are loosely curled in his lap; his legs aren’t on the table anymore. Zayn’s afraid to move, not sure if he’s more afraid of waking Louis or accidentally shaking some horrifying feeling loose. These moments in between waking and sleeping are the worst, he doesn’t quite have control of that internal firewall that keeps everything tucked safely inside.  
  
Louis stirs and elbows him, possibly on purpose, and stretches, arching back against the couch.  “Oh look, the sun went down,” Louis says, around a huge yawn. “Brilliant. Can we please get food and drink now?”  Zayn blinks. Louis wakes up fast, without much transition between nap and awake. He’s embarrassed to be cataloguing this for future reference.

“Whatever’s closest, honestly. I’d eat your shoe at this point,” he looks at Louis’ shoe. “Probably.”

  
“Pick your poison,” Louis says, then winces. “Not literally, obviously. There’s Nandos or a little Japanese place or we can risk it on dodgy kebabs or shitty pizza. And I’ll buy you whatever you want at Jono’s after, even something with an umbrella in it, I promise, if you let me have a pint and watch some football.”  
  
“Not sure I’ll survive the kebabs in my weakened state,” Zayn says. “Everything else sounds ace. What’s closest?”  
  
“Kiraku it is,” Louis says. “You won’t regret it.”  
  
The restaurant is just a few places down from Louis’ flat. It’s not large, just a small seating area with a sushi bar in the middle. The host seems to recognize Louis, seating them at a table in the front window. It’s nearing dark, now; Zayn likes watching the people walking past, the way the twilight leeches color out of everything. He knows it has something to do with rods or cones, remembers enough biology for that: how the light of not-quite-night makes it so hard to see, harder even than full dark. Louis is reading the menu as if he’s not an obvious regular. The dim restaurant lighting turns his face into angles and shadows, dark and light. He looks simultaneously ancient and wild, and completely normal. Zayn grabs hold of the fondness rushing through him before it can spill over, shoving his face into his own menu.  
  
“Are you a sushi person, then?” Louis asks, presumably because Zayn is looking at the sushi section. He turns the page.  
  
“It’s alright,” Zayn shrugs. “My ex-girlfriend loved it, could take it or leave it myself. I’ve never been here before, obviously. It’s nice, I like it.”  
  
Louis looks like he’s got a million questions on the tip of his tongue. But he swallows them, says instead, “Well, they make a killer noodle bowl. Been coming here for ages, it’s so close to me flat.” They order their food. Zayn tries not to chug his entire glass of water in one go.  
  
“Are you...shit, I don’t know how to ask this properly. With the fasting and all…” Louis fidgets with his napkin, twisting and untwisting it. “Is that something you’re really serious about, then?” Louis asks.  
  
“Not usually, to be honest,” Zayn takes another drink of his water. “My family’s Muslim, so I was raised that way.” Out the window, it’s drizzling now; he watches people scurrying in and out of the storefronts. “I’m not really practicing, like. But my little sister bet me that I couldn’t do it, so…” He spreads his hands. “We’ve been having a contest to see who will break first. Safaa keeps texting me pictures of burgers and shit, she’s totally ruthless.”  
  
“Sisters, man. Nothing like ‘em,” Louis says. “I’ve a few myself, I can relate.”  
  
“Yeah?” Zayn asks, “How many?”  
  
“Technically six, actually.” Zayn can feel his eyes getting big; Louis is laughing at him across the table. He swallows his astonishment.  
  
“Don’t know how to tell you this, but six is, like, three more than ‘a few.’”  
  
“Bollocks,” Louis says. “Few is always a variable whose properties are not defined.”  
  
“You fucker,” Zayn says, just as their food arrives. It’s steaming and fragrant; he thinks he could cry, it smells so good. Louis lifts his glass in invitation; Zayn clinks their glasses together. “Cheers, mate.” They dig in. Eating at the end of a fast day is always incredible; each mouthful seems like the first thing he’s ever eaten. And the food is perfect - simple without being plain. He looks up to tell Louis how good it is, to see Louis also ploughing through his noodles with fairly single-minded appreciation.  
  
“Good?” Louis asks, through a mouthful of noodles. Zayn nods. He can’t remember the last time he’s been out for a meal with someone other than his family, or the lads from the studio, or just himself. It’s...nice.  
  
“More than.” He sends Louis a little wave of happiness from across the table. A single star on his jacket lights up and flickers out. Louis flushes a bit, smiling at him when he looks up, curious but gentle.  
  
“You’re really something else, you know that?” Zayn can feel himself blushing, then. The moment stretches out between them. Self-Portrait of the artist: chopsticks suspended mid air, heart eyes in full effect, noodles squiggling out of his mouth like worms. Focus. Thankfully, someone behind them drops a plate, breaking the tension. Zayn looks at Louis, speculatively - that timing was a bit too ideal.  
  
“Did you…” Zayn starts. Louis holds up his hands, mock-affronted.  
  
“Wasn’t me, mate; I promise.”  
  
In short order, their food is gone and the waiter whisks their plates away. Zayn commandeers the check by way of having faster hands than Louis, which Louis seems sorely put out by.  
  
“Don’t be mad,” Zayn soothes him. “You promised me drinks; you’re going to have to keep up with my fancy artist lifestyle.” Louis seems to accept this, relaxing his shoulders.  
  
“To Jono’s,” Louis says, with grandeur. “Where I will fulfill my promise to buy you embarrassing drinks and learn all of your secrets.” Zayn taps on the window. Rain is streaking the glass, smearing the street lights.  
  
“Is it close, I hope?”  
  
“Just a few spots down the road. We might get a little damp, though.” Louis waves Zayn ahead of him, all fake gallantry. “Can you handle it in your delicate condition? It’ll be well worth it. I’ll even introduce you to the owner; she’s the absolute love of my life.”  
  
“Oh?” Zayn tries to maintain a tone of polite enthusiasm. He’s pretty sure he’s having mixed results; that one syllable came out fairly strangled. Thank god Louis is behind him and can’t see his face, which he is sure is stupidly crushed. He’s got no claim on Louis, didn’t even know he existed until six hours ago. A rush of cooler air surges in when he pushes open the restaurant door. The rain is in an intermediate stage - well past drizzle, not yet pouring. He imagines stepping out there: inks himself in black and white, big drops landing on his face, splashing in slow motion. Defeated. He looks at Louis.  
  
“You ready to run?” Zayn takes off his coat, holds it over his head. “Think there’s enough room for both of us, if we’re quick.” He lifts his right elbow, inviting Louis in. And then there he is, crowding into his space: larger than life, small enough to tuck just right under his arm. Louis points him out the door in the right direction.  
  
“That way, it’s just a few spots over,” he says, and they’re off.  
  
They burst into Jono’s a minute later. The warmth washes over Zayn like physical touch; warm air, warm light. He gently shakes the water off his jacket and tucks it under his arm. Jono’s is busy already, even for a Friday night. Two different football games are playing on opposite walls. There’s a small stage on the far end of the pub, facing the bar. A band is getting getting set up; fussing with cables, tuning their instruments. It’s hard to tell from across the semi-crowded room, but Zayn thinks they have a fiddler. The crowd seems pretty mellow, either settling in to watch footy, or beginning to gather around the stage. He wonders if Niall knows about this place; he’ll be so jealous when Zayn tells him about it tomorrow.  
  
Louis seems at ease, completely in his element. He puts his hand behind Zayn’s elbow and starts towing him to the bar. “Edie will kill me if we don’t say hello straightaway.” It’s loud, nothing crazy; but Louis leans in and puts his mouth right by Zayn’s ear to talk. It’s the best and worst feeling, Louis’ hot breath skating over the delicate skin there, each of his one point six five million nerve endings leaping to attention all at once. The hair on the back of his neck stands up.  
  
Louis must take his silence for shyness, because he squeezes Zayn’s elbow and adds, “Don’t worry, she’ll love you.” They ease their way around a group of women gathered near the bar. Louis leans right up against its maple edge and whistles loudly at one of the bartenders. She turns around and beams at him - it must be Edie. Zayn is ashamed of how relieved he is in that moment. While lovely, Edie’s clearly old enough to be his mum, if not a bit older. Her whole face is suffused with affection as she approaches them.  
  
“Well, if it ain’t me own true love. Give us a kiss, then!” She leans over the bar so Louis can smack a huge kiss on her cheek. “And who is this fine thing?” Edie looks at Zayn appraisingly, gives Louis a very obvious wink. Zayn laughs, while desperately wishing he could evaporate through the ceiling; Louis doesn’t seem embarrassed at all.  
  
“I’m Zayn,” he extends his hand over the bar to shake; she takes it and pulls him in for a kiss as well. She’s surprisingly strong; her hair smells like flowers and beer.  
  
“Welcome to Jono’s,” Edie says, releasing him. “Best Irish pub east of Cannon Rock. Thanks for bringing this one ‘round, haven’t seen him in ages.” She looks at Louis for a long moment. “I do love him, but if he gives you any trouble, let me know. Kind of a handful, he is.” Louis makes a face at her.  
  
“Miss you, Edie.”  
  
“Aww, you. Anyway - sorry to be brisk but it’s a busy night. Best get back to it. What can I get you, then?”  
  
“Just a pint of Harp, love,” Louis says. “And whatever my friend here would like.”  
  
“I’ll have the same, please.” Louis looks at him, disbelief written in every line of his face.  
  
“Well, that’s disappointing,” Louis says. Zayn whacks him in the arm.  
  
“Not my fault if you’re stupid,” Zayn says. “Did you honestly think I was going to order a mai tai?” Edie brings their drinks, then. Zayn tries to make a move to pay, but Louis elbows him aside.  
  
“Jesus, bro. You and your elbows.” Zayn rubs his ribs. Edie laughs and waives off the money that Louis offers her.  
  
She leans forward, conspiratorially. “Fez just got a big promotion,” she nods her head towards the back wall. “He’s over there and well on his way to plastered. If you play your cards right,” she winks at Louis again. “Bet he’ll cover these for you.”  
  
“I’m on it,” Louis says, giving her a small salute. Zayn is certain he didn’t fully understand that interchange; he gives Louis a questioning look as they turn to find a table. Louis just smiles and nods towards the stage.  
  
“Forgot there would be music here tonight,” Louis says. “Do you mind if we set up near the stage?” He chews his lip, looking at Zayn. “Or we can grab a table near a footy match, instead, if you’d rather. I’m sure it’ll be loud and - “  
  
“I’d love to sit by the stage. Love live music,” he takes a sip of his pint. “‘S how I got my gig at the studio, after all.” They snag one of the last high tops near the stage.  
  
“Right, then.” Louis says, setting his pint down on the table. “If you’ll excuse me for a second,” he points to a large guy three tables over. “Have to go congratulate Fez. It’s for the greater good.” Fez, a big bear of a bloke, is standing with a half circle of people around him, chatting and looking jovial. Zayn watches Louis approach their table, can just hear him announce “Fez!” from where he is. He sees Louis reach out to shake Fez’s hand - and that’s when Zayn feels it: time gives a tiny hiccup and the icy trickle creeps down his neck.  
  
Then Fez turns around and announces, “Drinks on me!” in a big, booming voice to the room; everyone cheers. Louis claps Fez on the shoulder, congratulates him again, and weaves his way back to Zayn. “My work here is done,” he says, face bright with laughter. “Mischief managed.” They toast.  
  
“So what’s the story with you and this place?” Zayn asks.  
  
“I got close with Edie when I was going through some shit a few years ago. I was spending too much time here when I should have been doing...well, almost anything else, really.” He stops to take a big drink of his lager. “Edie cottoned on. Used her unique blend of bartender insight and natural Irish tough love, and helped me work through some of it,” Louis laughs a little. “She said if I was going to be here anyway, she would pay me to be here - and even though I was already teaching, it gave me something else to do, a way to spend my time when I didn’t know what else I should be doing.” Zayn links his feet around Louis’ under the table, gives Louis’ legs a little hug with his own. “I found out shortly after that, that her husband had just died. She was kind of at loose ends herself. So, in a way, we helped each other.”  
  
“I’m glad you found her,” Zayn says. He’s sure that he’s the one who looks like he’s got a million questions, this time. He holds them in, hoping there will be more days or nights where he can learn Louis’ story, spread it out in front of him like a map. All the landmarks - like here, and here, and here - that have made Louis himself.  
  
“Me, too, mate.” Louis straightens up suddenly, looking over Zayn’s shoulder. “Here we go,” Louis says, nodding to the stage. Zayn turns to look: the band is walking on. He slides his chair around the other side of the table so that he can properly watch, which also puts him shoulder to shoulder with Louis.  
  
Full Metal Bog ends up being a pretty entertaining Irish thrash band, if that’s even a thing; specializing in really loud, fast folk with intense drumming. They play a mix of wildly reimagined covers, as well as original tunes. Their hardcore spin on Shout Out to My Ex gets everyone out of their seats, but Dancing in the Moonlight almost brings the roof down.  
  
“This band is sick,” Zayn leans over to shout in Louis’ ear.  
  
“Great, aren’t they?”  
  
“My mate who runs the studio is Irish - he would absolutely love them.”  
  
“Edie’s usually got some merch for sale up at the bar, if you want to check it out,” Louis offers.  
  
Edie looks pleased to see him again; he picks up a CD for Niall and one for himself. She slips him one of their cards, as well. He grabs another round of pints while he’s at the bar for good measure. The pub has gotten a lot busier since he and Louis originally arrived; people press behind him, around him as he returns to the table. The crowd helps to distract him from Louis, who keeps touching him in ways that are probably accidental but are possibly not and Zayn just wants to know, one way or the other. It feels like his heart is swimming in his stomach, all saturated bleeding inks and viscous stomach fluid. His heart, that treacherous arsehole, languidly back-stroking through the acid waves.  
  
They’re a few pints in when Full Metal Bog wraps up their set for the evening. Zayn’s at the sweet spot of tipsy and cozy, a brilliant place to inhabit. Louis has gone to use the WC, so Zayn can relax a little without having to worry about feelings overflow. Being so full of food and alcohol after a long day of fasting is a powerful combination. He yawns again; his eyelids are getting hard to hold open. All of a sudden Louis is there, right in front of him.  
  
“Aye, look at the wee sleepy bairn,” Louis says in a terrible Irish accent. “Ready to call it a night?” Zayn nods.  
  
“Soz, think my fighting spirit went out with the band.”  
  
“No worries, lad. I’m pretty wrecked meself; can’t keep up with your artist lifestyle after all.”  
  
“Just let me have a wee first, then we can be off.” Louis sits back down at the table while Zayn makes a beeline for the loo. There’s not a line, thankfully, and the walk wakes him up some. When he gets back to the table, it is Louis who looks on the verge of sleep, one hand limply curled around his empty pint glass, the other hand propping up his head. Zayn hauls him up.  
  
“Come on then, old man.” He maneuvers them to the door, giving Edie a wave as they head out. Louis perks up enough to blow her a kiss. Zayn opens the door - the night’s definitely gotten colder, and the rain is falling in sheets now. The blast of cold air helps wake Zayn up the rest of the way. He shakes out his jacket again for their makeshift umbrella. They each take an edge this time; their technique is improving. Zayn moves to exit the pub before people start whinging about the draft, but Louis stops him with a hand on his arm.  
  
“You’re staying at mine, right?” Louis looks tired and earnest. “It’s arse-o’clock, it’s pissing rain, I don’t want to have to be a gentleman and walk you back to the tube station when me flat’s like six doors down.”  
  
Zayn swallows. At this range, it’s impossible to be anything besides honest.  
  
“Louis, I…” He’s not sure what excuse he’s looking for, not sure how he deserves any of this - but he’s grateful that Louis gives him a moment to work through it on his own. “Alright, thanks. But one condition.” Louis arches an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth turns up. Maybe he wasn’t as sure of Zayn’s answer as he seemed.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I’m starving again, in need of dodgy kebabs.” Louis groans. “Can’t help it, I’m a growing boy,” Zayn pats his stomach with his free hand.  
  
“Well, that’s easy enough, I suppose.”  
  
They hurry down the pavement to the kebab stand, jostling each other in bids to secure more coverage. Zayn’s jacket isn’t doing much to protect them from the pelting rain; he hip-checks Louis ruthlessly out from underneath it in an unguarded moment.  
  
“Oi, fuckface,” Louis rips the jacket out of Zayn’s hands, starts hitting him with it. _Thwap! Bang! Pow!_  
  
“Truce, truce,” Zayn says, holding up his hands. “Let me back under.”  
  
By the time they gain possession of their spicy roasted deliciousness on a stick, they’re half drenched. Zayn starts eating his kebab immediately on the way up the stairs to Louis’ flat.  
  
“So classy, we are,” Louis says, blowing on his to cool it off.  
  
“The London drizzle really adds something to it,” Zayn says around a mouthful of chicken as they arrive at Louis’ door. “Shit,” Louis turns to look at him as he is unlocking the door, “burned my mouth.” Louis eyes flick down to Zayn’s mouth, stay there for a long second.  
  
“Shame,” Louis says. Zayn’s afraid steam may literally start pouring from his clothes. Then Louis opens the door and they’re in. They huddle in Louis’ tiny tiled entryway, dripping and eating their kebabs. Standing so close to Louis, tipsy, he’s not sure what’s going to happen next. Maybe nothing, maybe he’ll fly apart. It’s not until Louis starts shivering that Zayn realizes he is, too.  
  
“Think we’d best get some dry clothes on,” Louis says. “Come on, I’ll get you something - should fit well enough,” he sizes Zayn up, “maybe a bit long.”  
  
“Oh my god, I think I’ve seen this one,” Zayn says, then pitches his voice low: “‘Look at you, you’re wet through. Let me get you into something more comfortable.’ Does that work for you often?”  
  
“Fuck off,” Louis laughs. He leads Zayn down the hall to what must be the only bedroom. Zayn hovers in the doorway while Louis rifles through some folded laundry on top of his dresser. Louis seems supremely comfortable in almost every situation, but entering someone’s bedroom is always an intimate thing for Zayn. Louis walks over with a pair of loose joggers and an old Green Day shirt to sleep in.  
  
“Hope this’ll be alright,” Louis hands the clothes over, then points down the hall. “There’s a loo through that door on the right, and another in here.”  
  
“Thanks, bro,” Zayn says. He turns to head down the hall; it’s less personal, somehow.  
  
“Cheers. Think there’s an extra toothbrush behind the mirror.”  
  
Zayn changes quickly, brushes his teeth, takes a piss. Louis’ clothes are soft and smell like detergent. He hesitates in front of the closed door for a minute, hand hovering over the knob. He’s at a total loss as to what comes next. It’s been a long time since he’s shared a bed with someone, other than the times he’s been off his face at Niall’s. This is not that; he’s mostly sober, for one; he doesn’t usually want to put his tongue in Niall’s mouth, for two. He closes his eyes, mentally draws himself in a shirt that says, ‘Anxiety Stupid’, his cupped hands full of stinging wasps. Then he takes a breath and opens the door. Louis has changed already and is walking back towards the bedroom, glass of water in his hand. He stops by Zayn to hand him the water and scoops the wet clothes out of his other hand.  
  
“I’ll just put your stuff in the dryer, if that’s OK?”  
  
“Yes, mum. Love you, mum.” Louis flips him off as he walks away, clothes in hand. Zayn hovers awkwardly in the hallway, clutching the water, paralyzed with uncertainty, until Louis comes back a minute later.  
  
“So, I was thinking…” Louis stops and looks at Zayn more fully. “All right, lad?” His arm starts to lift, like he’s going to reach out; then flops back down by his side.  
  
“It’s just…” Zayn breaks off, he really doesn’t know how to continue. He stares at the wall over Louis’ head, and tries to send a small thread of everything - his nervousness and affection, tiredness and disbelief - to Louis. Louis’ mouth tightens a fraction, but he looks at Zayn steadily, tilting his head.  
  
“Handy, that,” Louis says. “Come on.” He starts walking to the bedroom, Zayn following helplessly. He hesitates again in the doorway; Louis takes his arm and levers him through. Which is unexpectedly hot, and unexpectedly hot Louis is the last thing Zayn needs to be thinking about right now.  
  
“Look, I don’t...know exactly how to decode all of that,” Louis says, waving his hand in the air like he’s brushing away fruit flies. “Lost me ring a long time ago. But I want you to know that...” he drops his hands, “you can’t do anything wrong, here. It’s just sleep. And if you’d rather knock off on the couch - well, you’ve my sympathies, I’ve done it many times meself - you’re welcome to that, as well.”  
  
“Bed’s good,” Zayn says, taking a deep breath. “Is there a...like, what side do you want me on?”  
  
“I usually end up somewhere in the middle, to be honest,” Louis says. “So whichever works for me.” Louis walks around to the side further from Zayn and hesitates in front of the open window. “Is open okay for you? Can get a bit noisy, if you’d rather it be closed?”  
  
“Open’s fine, Peeta.” Louis rolls his eyes and crawls into bed. He reaches over and pats the empty side briskly. Zayn sits down on the edge of the mattress. There’s literally feet between them. “Do you double-knot your shoelaces, as well?”  
  
“You’re an idiot. You know that, right?” Louis asks, while Zayn finally gets under the duvet. “Are your parents ever shocked that you survived to adulthood?”  
  
“Know this,” Zayn says. “Host or not, I will not hesitate to smother you with your own pillow.” It’s silent for a bit, apart from breathing and the rustle of bedding. Zayn starts to relax, muscle by muscle, give in to the long day and all of its strange upheavals.  
  
“Hey,” Louis says, around a yawn. “I’m glad that lady couldn’t keep it in her pants, today.”  
  
“Yeah,” Zayn says. “Here’s to cheaters.”  
  
Louis falls asleep fast. It seems like just a few minutes until his breathing evens out. Zayn adds it to the catalog _For Future Reference_ , resolutely does not turn to look at him sleeping.  
  
Laying there, waiting for sleep, he gives himself five minutes to consider the possibilities; paints a whole mural in big swoopy spray paint lines, sleepy blues and grays and purples. Falling arse over tea kettle off the cliff, Louis falling after; having it be good. It’s been a long time since he’s had something good. He’s lulled by the sounds outside: pouring rain, wet tires on the road, voices drifting up from the street below. A whole city that doesn’t need him at all. Finally, sleep pulls at him with soft fingers, full of promise. He lets the tide sweep him out, wash him away.  
  
*******  
  
When Zayn wakes up the next morning, Louis is curled in on himself, hair soft and scattered across his face. It’s early, earlier than Zayn has willingly seen for a while; the sun trickles weak through the window. Louis is smaller when he’s not in motion, made bigger by his voice and the obvious energy with which he attacks life - but here, in the oddly prim floral sheets, hood tucked up around his head and hands tucked up against his face, he’s almost slight. Zayn’s not ready to deal with whatever that means, so he rolls over and wills himself back to sleep.  
  
It’s somewhat later when Louis wakes him.  
  
‘Oi oi, mate!” he says, throwing himself across the mattress and also Zayn, “Wake up! There’s toast and eggs and tea, I’m the Julia Bloody Child of post-piss up brekkie.” Zayn grunts and blinks and tries to roll away, but Louis’ pinned him across the hips and he can’t. He lays there, muscles syrupy with sleep, while Louis bounces on him.  
  
“Lad, I’ve gone proper domestic on your behalf. If you’re not out of bed in two minutes,” Louis heaves himself off, digging his elbow directly into Zayn’s bladder on the way up, “I’m not above dumping the tea on your face.” He peers down into Zayn’s face.  
  
“Mate.” Zayn lifts his hand and lets it flop over his heart. His mouth is so dry and he has to piss in the worst way. “You had me at toast.”  
  
He lifts his hand again and Louis hauls him up, holding his ground for a few seconds, crowding right in Zayn’s space. Louis’ looks soft and rumpled; his eyes are somehow more blue in the mid-morning light. It’s unfair that Louis looks so good when Zayn isn’t ready for it; it’s hard to keep his helpless attraction from fizzing out of him like shaken soda. So instead Zayn leans forward and drapes himself over Louis; squeezes Louis’ ribs and knocks their heads together, clamps down on his own unguarded fondness.  
  
“You had me at toast. Now let me use the toilet before I wee on your rug.” Zayn eases out of the hug and the bedroom, walks down the short hall to the toilet while Louis heads back to the kitchen.  
  
Louis’ flat looks different in the day; airy and comfortable. Not messy but definitely lived in; lots of warm wood and oddball art on the walls: framed setlists mixed with bird prints, and a whole wall of childish drawings in crayon and watercolor. Half-awake, it takes him a minute to realize that it must be art from Louis’ students; Louis himself seems to feature prominently in many of them. Sometimes as a stick figure, sometimes with an animal body, sometimes towering over trees in landscapes, or impossibly tiny - but all Louis; misshapen, grandiose, loving.  
  
He makes it to the bathroom at last. After an enormous piss, maybe one of the top ten pisses of his life, Zayn finds Louis at the little table in the kitchen. The promised toast is laid out on mismatched plates, golden and buttered, and there are soft boiled eggs, and bacon, and three different jam jars on the table, and a small stack of comic books. Louis has poured Zayn’s tea, what looks and smells like strong Yorkshire Red, into a faded Iron Man mug. Zayn closes his eyes; it smells amazing, like home and hope and also like a big hand squeezing his heart all at the same time. He feels like he’s won the lottery. Louis kicks Zayn’s chair out for him, breaking the moment.  
  
“All right, there, Zayn?” Louis asks, raising his own mug to his mouth. He looks steadily at Zayn, eyebrow quirking, while he sips at his own tea.  
  
“Louis, this is amazing,” Zayn sits and pulls in close to the table, scraping the chair legs across the floor. “Had no idea there’d be three types of jam. I’d have woken up sooner, you posh fuck.” Louis laughs, cramming toast into his mouth. He gestures at Zayn with his mug, grabbing a worn copy of Cable  & Deadpool with his free hand and sliding it across the table to Zayn.  
  
“Fancy some Wade Wilson with your tea?” Louis asks around his mouthful of toast.  
  
“Cheers,” Zayn says, touching the cover. “Will you marry me?” Louis just throws his head back and laughs, loud and bright. He’s already got a copy of Marvel Zombies 3 open, and he lowers his head to read.  
  
They eat and read comics over tea and it’s very easy. Zayn loses sense of how much time passes. He looks up to Louis laughing about something, and catches the sun glinting through Louis’ hair, slanting across the angles of his face. Zayn holds his breath, choking off that thing rising ruthlessly in his chest. They’re sitting so close, huddled around the tiny, scarred wooden table, knees bumping from time to time. He’s sure Louis can pick up the subcutaneous waft of longing seeping from his pores.  
  
After a while, they get up and Zayn helps Louis clear away and wash the dishes. Louis washes while Zayn rinses and dries, a peaceful rhythm that helps ease the knot that’s forming at the bottom of his stomach. He’s halfway through drying a mug when Zayn feels that little trickle of ice water down his spine, turns to see Louis staring at him very fixedly.  
  
“Stop that.” Zayn says, flicking Louis lightly with the end of his towel. Louis gapes at him.  
  
“How did you know?” Louis asks.  
  
“Dunno, really. Just a feeling, I guess, like…” Zayn trails off, frowning.  
  
“Like?” Louis’ eyebrows have mostly ascended into his hairline. His fingers tap tap tap the counter.  
  
“Kind of like something at the corner of your brain, you know?” Zayn asks. Louis shakes his head; Zayn shrugs. “Like, when you just see something out of the corner of your eye, yeah?”  
  
“But instead of your eye, it’s-”  
  
“Your brain. Yeah,” Zayn says.  
  
“That makes absolutely no sense,” Louis says, flatly, mouth tight. Zayn watches him work through it, let it go. Louis rocks back on his heels, then forward.  
  
“Now you test on me.” Louis says, bracing himself. Zayn concentrates on summoning up an emotion, but all he feels in the moment is massive gratitude to the universe, that shook and shook them like a mad snow globe, set them flying. And somehow out of all the little specks of snow he could have settled by he landed next to Louis, and here they are: this warm kitchen, midday, eyeball to eyeball. He closes his eyes, visualizes that feeling pouring out of him, covering Louis like soap bubbles. He feels a little wind rush out, a gentle breath, nothing like yesterday’s sweeping gust.  
  
“Zayn,” Louis says, a cross between a sigh and a groan. Zayn opens his eyes, not sure how much it worked. Louis is sagged against the counter, cheeks a little pink. His eyes are bright but his mouth wobbles. “Get in, you,” he says, and he pulls Zayn in for another hug.  
  
They stand there for a minute, holding each other up. Zayn’s knees feel like jelly; it’s hard to catch his breath properly.  
  
“Hey, that was all right,” Louis says, drawing back.  
  
“Yeah,” Zayn says, exhaling. He fights the urge to twist his fingers together, picks at a loose thread on his sleeve, instead.  
  
“I’ve never met another one like us before,” Louis says.  
  
“Me, either.”  
  
“We should practice,” Louis says. He’s got a faraway look in his eye that doesn’t bode well for anyone, based on Zayn’s newly-formed knowledge of Louis. “Find a place, set up a schedule, all that.”  
  
“What?” Zayn says, not sure where the conversation is exactly headed anymore.  
  
“You know, in a movie - like, this would be our montage sequence,” Louis says, hands everywhere, gesturing wildly. “There’d be some song playing in the background while we spar and gain strength and -”  
  
_(and lick sweat off of each other’s necks, and then you knock me to the floor and lay on me and)_  
  
“Yeah, that’d be sick,” Zayn says, instead, not knowing if he’s more surprised that anything coherent comes out of his mouth or that he’s actually agreed to Louis’ awful plan. “Should probably get to the studio today, though. Since, you know, I never made it in yesterday.”  
  
“Right,” Louis says. “Of course. Let me grab your things from the dryer.” Louis returns a minute later with Zayn’s clothes.  
  
“I’ll just go change, then,” Zayn says, heading to the bedroom. He folds Louis’ clothes neatly and puts them on the bed, judging himself deeply for taking a whiff but doing it anyway; all in, and all. His own clothes smell like Louis’ detergent, which is oddly comforting. He finds Louis puttering about in the kitchen, putting away the dishes.  
  
“‘spose I should be off, then.” He says, hovering in the doorway. Louis looks up, face shut like a jacket. Zayn’s so bad at this - knowing if he should stay or when he should go, knowing he needs to leave and get some work done, not wanting to walk out without knowing when they can hang out again. Zayn shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking at the floor, and then makes himself look up again.  
  
“So, I just…” He starts, fumbling through the words. “Like, if you want to –“ Louis is in front of him all of a sudden, hands and face gentle.  
  
“Your phone - give it to me.” Zayn hands it over. Louis taps in his contact information, sends himself a text from Zayn’s phone. “That’s done, then. Have any plans tonight?”  
  
“Um. No, nothing special. I’ll be at the studio for a while, then…” He shrugs. “Hanging out. With my lizard. Sad and lonely.” He puts on his best pout.  
  
“Well. Don’t fill your dance card. I’ll text you later,” Louis brings him in for another hug. Zayn pulls away first, but keeps a hand on the back of Louis’ elbow.  
  
“Louis, I…” Louis smiles, right at him.  
  
“The fuck, Zayn. Get to work, if you’re so worried about it.” He pushes him away, not gently; Zayn heads for the door.

 *******  
  
A long shower and the walk from his own flat to the studio do a lot to restore his equilibrium. It’s a nice day; beautiful, really, like spring’s big apology for the day before. He knows each crack in the pavement, the dogs and the smells and the bicycle bells. Zayn didn’t ever think he could feel quite at home here, but that’s changed somehow. The sun warms his skin like a benediction, proof that things can get better, be better. He skirts around a puddle left over from last night’s rain, stopping to light a cigarette and examine someone’s front flower box, a wild tangle of blooming bell-shaped flowers and soft silvery leaves. He reaches out to stroke one of the leaves - they look like downy rabbit ears - and startles when his phone chimes. It’s Safaa, who has sent him a picture from home: her cheek smashed against Trisha’s, in front of the dining room table. Their grinning faces mostly block the view, but he can see hints of the big traditional meal laid out. A year ago, he would have felt out of sorts; now he just feels happy. He texts her back.  
  
**happy eid, what do I win?**  
  
_U DIDN’T!!!_  
_Mum requires proof_  
  
**Have witnesses. love u all. don’t eat 2 much.**  
  
Zayn arrives a minute later. The studio was built into a converted old brownstone a few years ago, but Niall left the front of the house untouched. The ivy rambles thickly over the low wall in front - he swears it even waves at him as he walks in. He makes it through the main entrance, distracted; barely registering Liam at the front desk.  
  
“Zayn,” Liam says, spinning his chair to properly face him and lowering his headphones. “As I live and breathe. Nice of you to make it today!” Liam smiles that big smile of his, where his eyes crinkle up at the corners. Zayn’s not yet seen Liam mad about anything, honestly.  
  
“Don’t nag me, Mum,” Zayn says, “Well along on that final mix for Wolf Hamper, you’ll have no complaints from them.”  
  
“Future banger, then?” asks Liam, spinning in his chair a little, back and forth.  
  
Zayn wrinkles his nose. “Not yet, mate. Too trancey, no bridge, lyrics are also a bit shit.”  
  
“Well,” says Liam, turning back to his computer, “you can’t win them all. You heading straight up, then?” Zayn shakes his head.  
  
“Since you’re on desk duty, where’s our friend Nialler?” Zayn asks.  
  
“He’s working in Big Boi today,” Liam says. He starts to slide his headphones back up as Zayn rolls his eyes. Liam’s naming convention for the studios changes frequently, but is always based on their relative sizes. “Getting it set up; we’ve some actors coming in a bit.”  
  
Zayn heads back to the large studio. When Niall bought the house, he gutted the ground floor and converted the majority of it to what is now the main studio. He even had the back wall of the ground floor bumped out to add two conjoined isolation booths that jut out into the garden. Zayn finds Niall spread out on a couch in the control room with his journal, chewing on his pen as he stares at the glass partitioning off the empty live room.  
  
Zayn flops down next to Niall on the couch, stares at the side of his face for a minute while Niall steadily ignores him, knee jiggling. For a laid-back person, Niall’s always so twitchy, like he needs to be in motion, touching or tangling something. It’s always mystified Zayn; he himself is so opposite. Maybe it’s what works about them, the easy friendship they’ve built.  
  
“All right, Zayner?” Niall asks. He reads what he’s written, wrinkles his nose, and scratches something out, scrawling a few more words in his small, loopy print.  
  
“Niaaallllll,” Zayn draws it out. Niall glances over at him. He looks tired, not in a bad way - a bit more scruff than usual, hair kind of peaking in every direction. Zayn gives him his best woeful dog gaze.  
  
“Mate, I’m unmoved by your beautiful eyes,” Niall says, head clearly still half in whatever he was working on.  
  
“And?” Zayn asks.  
  
“Unbelievable lies,” Niall gives in and closes his journal, resting it on his jiggling knee.  
  
“ _AND_?” Zayn pokes his finger into Niall’s cheek, the little divot there.  
  
“...drawn out sighs! I’m immune.” Niall sets the journal aside, uncrossing his legs. “You should know this about me by now.” Niall sprawls a little deeper into the couch, while Zayn edges closer. “You’re all knotted up.”  
  
“I am?” asks Zayn.  
  
“You are. Wound like a pretzel,” Niall says, tapping Zayn’s knee.  
  
Zayn leans into Niall on the couch, scoots closer as Niall relaxes into him.  
  
“Mmm. Someone’s been writing too many lyrics,” Zayn says. Niall always runs a little warm; sitting with him like this is not unlike cuddling a hot water bottle. Zayn finally feels something ease, like his skin properly fits his body again for the first time since leaving Louis’ flat. Niall rotates a bit to face him, raising an eyebrow.  
  
“Someone has. And someone else is supposed to be mixing a track, if memory serves. What gives?” He hooks his left leg over Zayn’s right leg, sighing and sinking back.  
  
“I met someone,” Zayn says, swallowing hard. He watches Niall’s knee, the line of fading scar tissue that peeks out then disappears back into his jeans. He twists the ring on his index finger over and over.  
  
“Lucky you,” Niall says. “Are you - do you,” Niall stops for a moment, closing his eyes. “Sorry, I’m bungling this. Is everything OK?”  
  
“It’s fucking me up, mate,” Zayn says, “It’s been a while, you know?” Niall nods, squeezing Zayn’s leg with his own.  
  
“Tell me about her,” Niall turns in, giving Zayn his most serious face. ”What’s her name, what’s her sign, is she fit, did you shag?” He waggles his eyebrows while Zayn bursts out laughing, loud; he covers his face with his hands to stuff it back in his mouth.  
  
“Dunno how to break this to you, Nialler - but she’s a bloke,” Zayn says, from under his palms. He doesn’t even need to see to know how hotly Niall is blushing, how the flush starts in his face and travels down his entire neck. He feels Niall move on the couch next to him.  
  
“Soz, Z,” Niall says, pulling Zayn’s hands away from his face. If Zayn didn’t think that he had personally cornered the market on soulful beseeching glances, Niall would be giving him a run for his money.  
  
“It’s just - of all people,” Zayn says, still laughing but quietly, now.  
  
“I know, I know,” Niall says, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “But I really am sorry. I know better and I hate when people do that to me.”  
  
“You’re OK.” Zayn crooks his arm around Niall’s neck, pulling him in for a squeeze. “You’re one of the good ones.” Niall rests his head against Zayn for a moment, then shifts back.  
  
“So give me the deets. What’s his name, what’s his sign, is he fit, did you shag?” asks Niall. Zayn’s mouth quirks; he looks up at the ceiling, staring at a single light bulb there until his eyes water and a tiny sun is burned into his vision.  
  
“His name is Louis,” Zayn says, “He made me tea and toast.”  
  
“And?” asks Niall. Zayn grins; he appreciates this, framing it up in song lyrics. It takes some pressure off of what he is sure will be a horrifyingly emotional confession; Niall’s good for this kind of stuff.  
  
“Uh. I think he’s really fit. He was an excellent host.” They cringe simultaneously. “Sorry, I’m not -”  
  
“Toast,” Niall says. “Sexy. Wild. _And_?” Zayn takes a breath, thumbing his lower lip.  
  
“I like him more than I’m supposed -”  
  
“Don’t you do it,” Niall says, putting his hand up.  
  
“- to,” Zayn says, finished. And we may have superpowers. Niall groans and drops his head into his hand, running his thumb across his forehead.  
  
“So what should I do?” Zayn asks.  
  
“That’s always the question, isn’t it?” Niall says, looking back up. “You know I’m no expert - God knows it took Harry and me ages to get to the point. But I think,” Niall shifts his leg off Zayn, moving back against the armrest so he can face him more fully. “Give it time. No need to worry, right? If he likes you back, let him. And if he doesn’t, then we’ll get pissed and you’ll cry into my lager and wallow for a day or two.” Zayn nods, throat tight.  
  
“I know,” Zayn says. He gives himself three more seconds to stew in it. Niall stands up, does that full body shake he does when he’s been sitting for too long, and holds out his hand to Zayn.  
  
“Come on, then,” Niall says. “Let’s have a listen to that track you’re stuck on.” Zayn lets Niall pull him up.  
  
“Don’t you have some people coming yet? Liam mentioned...is it film or telly?” Zayn asks.  
  
“Film, I think. Liam booked it, he knows more about the project than me. But they’re doing a voiceover bit, and they’re dead excited about having two isolation booths.” Niall’s eyes light up like they do when he gets excited about studio talk.  
  
“You’re such an unbelievable nerd,” Zayn says, poking him in the stomach. “Don’t lie, you love every chance to use that extra booth. Do you need to get them set up?” Zayn asks.  
  
“Nah, the movie people aren’t due until three, and they’re even later than you most days. We’ve got plenty of time.” They head upstairs to the smaller studio on the first floor.  
  
“What’s Liam calling this one now?” Zayn asks.  
  
“Who knows anymore. Li’l Kim, I think.” Niall says, shrugging. “Need anything from the kitchen, now that the hunger games are over?” Zayn shakes his head.  
  
“I’m good, thanks.”  
  
Niall stops for a second, en route to the kitchenette. “Speaking of, who won the bet, anyway?”  
  
“Think I did. Have to confirm with my mum before it’s official.” Zayn gets settled in the control room. Tossing his jacket on the desk, he pulls up the Mac and queues the song. Niall makes his way in, juggling two bottles of water and his journal.  
  
“Happy Eid,” he says, handing Zayn one of the waters.  
  
Though their own music is not much alike, Niall’s got a great ear. More than that, the ability to listen to a song and know where to tweak it, what structure may fit it better, where to add depth but also where to strip it down. The song Zayn’s been working on isn’t his own, but he feels ownership of it; the band trusts him. They’ve been gaining a bigger audience and are hoping to have a few cuts that might make it to radio. The tune’s alright - catchy enough, but doesn’t stick around after listening.  
  
“Let’s have a listen, then,” Niall says, leaning forward in the chair. Zayn plops a pair of headphones on Niall’s head and presses play. He takes out his cigarettes and waves them in Niall’s face, pointing to the back balcony doors. On the first go, it’s always hard to watch someone listen to something he’s been working on. Niall nods at him and keeps listening. Out on the balcony, he takes the time to text his family back - this time, a bright selfie with Niall’s sunny garden as a backdrop. He skims his Instagram feed, closes it, opens up his messages. Like an absolute sop, he re-reads the text messages Louis sent him when he was on his way home, all five words:  
  
_this is louis_  
_your favorite_  
  
He resolutely does not text Louis, even though he can think of at least ten stupid things he wants to tell him about: Niall’s inexplicable green thumb and unseasonably large vegetables; the patterns his exhales are making as the smoke twists in the air; that little silver-leafed plant, so soft against his knuckle. He pounds his head against the balcony door; he’s such a goner. When he comes back in, Niall’s got the headphones off and is looking at his phone.  
  
“Figured out your problem,” he says, without looking up. “Juxtaposition.”  
  
“Nice word, Nialler.” Niall sticks his tongue out, waving him over.  
  
“So Kate - her voice is sweet and clear, good tone, not particularly powerful,” Zayn nods. “But she emotes well and has great phrasing.” Zayn nods again. It’s best not to interrupt Niall when he’s in the zone. “But she’s buried under all this production. And then, since it’s kind of got this synthy, heavy, layered vibe to begin with,” Niall clicks something on the screen, replays her unaltered vocal line over the track, without the effects and double tracking. “She gets lost.” He’s right - unaltered, Kate’s voice swoops above the heavier instrumentation, like some ocean bird darting over heavy water.  
  
“Also - you’re going to kill me,” Niall says, covering his face with one hand so that he doesn’t have to look at Zayn. “The song’s -”  
  
“Too subtle,” Zayn says, at the same time as Niall. “Pay up,” he says, holding out his hand.  
  
“What’re we up to, now?” Niall asks, pulling his hand off his face. Zayn considers this for a moment.  
  
“Five quid, I think,” Zayn says, scratching at his ear.  
  
“What,” Niall screeches, spinning around in the chair to fully face Zayn. “That’s larceny.”  
  
“Add it to my wages, mate.” He shrugs and makes an unrepentant face. “Anyway, what were you on about?” He finally sits in the chair next to Niall, who cues up the beginning of the track again.  
  
“It starts slow and builds nicely...the finish is fucking deadly. But it’s hard to wait that long. You’ve got to…” Niall trails off, staring at the screen for a minute.  
  
“Yeah. Throw them a bone or two along the way, like...” Zayn’s got it, now; their wavelengths have synced up. “Pre-chorus. They had a couple bits we ended up scrapping that would probably work all right.” Niall’s knee is starting to bounce, up down up down; it’s how Zayn knows they’re onto something.  
  
“What about a short bridge right before that giant fucking bass drop -” Niall starts drumming against the desk.  
  
“Boom, right in the gut. Wicked. And what if we did that thing - you know, that Christmas Elves tune? Remember?” Zayn nudges Niall’s shoulder; Niall looks up at the ceiling, trying to tow the song out of his vault.  
  
“Was that the one with the…” Niall drops to his lowest register and sings. “Super low harmony?”  
  
“Right but we’d just add it at the bridge, like. So it’d be…” Zayn grabs Niall’s journal off the desk, flipping it open to a clean page. He starts to sketch it out as he talks. “Verse. Then pre-chorus. Then verse…”  
  
“Class,” NIall says. “The pre-chorus tease.”  
  
“Right? Then the big build - pre-chorus, chorus, then...” Zayn drums the pen on the page, a quick tempo.  
  
“Bridge,” they say at the same time. Niall raises his eyebrow and grins, snatching the pen out of Zayn’s hand.  
  
“Then the big bass whammy,” Zayn continues, ignoring him.  
  
“Layer in some horns,” adds Niall, drawing some squiggly shapes on Zayn’s little map.  
  
“That’s some Bon Iver shit, good call. Don’t know what the fuck you’re drawing though, mate,” he examines Niall’s addition. “Don’t quit your day job.”  
  
“It’s the horns, you wanker. Then final chorus. Kill the outro?” Niall tilts his head, tapping the pen against his mouth.  
  
“Kill the outro,” Zayn agrees, with finality. “Fuck it. Let’s do it.” They salvage sections of earlier versions of the song to flesh out a rudimentary pre-chorus, and Zayn throws together a few bars of the bridge on keyboard. It doesn’t have lyrics, but their improvised melody is solid; the band can put their own words to it, anyway.  
  
“Worst case,” Niall says, “they just sing ‘la de da’ like a million other fucking bands and no one will ever know.” Zayn nods and laughs.  
  
“Hey, time check. How long do I still have you for?” Zayn asks.  
  
“Eh, we’ve got ages yet.” Niall says. He checks his phone. “Or fifteen minutes, give or take.”  
  
“Need you to do that low bit before you fuck off,” Zayn says, looking fixedly at the computer screen. He holds his breath for a few seconds before he chances a look at Niall. “Come on, Nialler. You’ve got that raspy thing in your lower register,” he wheedles, “it’s for the juxtaposition.”  
  
“Can’t believe you’re using me own word against me,” Niall says, chewing his thumb nail. “The sting of betrayal cuts deep, mate.”  
  
“You know I love you,” Zayn says, draping his arm around Niall’s shoulder and sloppily nuzzling his neck. “Also it’s your twenty pound word, so quit your bitching.”  
  
“Liked you better before you were so mouthy,” Niall pushes him off, half-heartedly.  
  
“Time is money, Nialler.” He points Niall to the live room.  
  
Niall trudges behind the glass to the microphone and records the harmony, quick; first take, like usual. As he’s coming back out, Liam pops his head through the door.  
  
“Film squad is here, man,” Liam says. “You ready?”  
  
“Yeah, we’re good,” Zayn says. Niall leans over him to grab his journal off the desk; Zayn sets his hand on Niall’s arm for a second. “Thanks, bro. It’ll sound sick when it’s finished, the band’ll be stoked.” Niall winks and raps his knuckles on Zayn’s shoulder.  
  
“I’ll stop back before I head out for the night. Good luck with the rest.” He follows Liam out the door and back downstairs.  
  
Alone, Zayn works on it for a while, smoothing out some of the roughness. The late afternoon light shifts into early evening; he gets the song to a good stopping point and saves what they were working on. It’s nearly finished and he wants have the band to give it a listen before he tweaks the final cut. Leaning back in the chair, he pulls his arms above his head in a long stretch. Now that he’s not distracted, he’s struck by the sheer quietness of the studio - which is of course by design, but still profound. He likes it, the silence like flat deep water. Imagines himself diving into it, fish-tailed and gilled, finding that little room below the surface where he can make something for himself. He's been stuck for a while with his own songs; got a handful of tracks that he really likes, but not enough to round out anything more than an EP.  
  
He wanders into the live room and finds the piano, bending to touch the smooth cool keys. He presses one, the familiar resistance like muscle memory, like his own body. He fishes the phone out of his pocket and thumbs on the voice recorder. Then he sits and just pushes keys for a while, randomly. The random notes become a pattern, the pattern becomes a sequence, and he lets himself get caught up in it: hears the beats and other sounds he’ll use to build it out of nothing, the small whisper of its fragile start all the way through the furious ragged end. The notes flurry out like sparks, flaring and dying, floating down as ash. It feels good, like leeching poison from a wound. He turns off the recording, and goes out to the balcony to have another smoke; checking his phone by habit: more texts from his family, nothing else. The evening sky is starting to emerge, washed out. He’s hungry; happier now that he gets to actually do something about it. Niall comes back in as Zayn is closing the balcony door.  
  
“Just about to head out,” Niall says. “Do you need anything before I go?”  
  
“Nah, made good progress. Want another listen?”  
  
“Can’t, I’m afraid, got a dinner date waiting.” Niall shoves his hands in his pockets, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile.  
  
“Yeah?” Zayn asks.  
  
“Harry’s been on this kick lately, trying to recreate restaurant food at home. They’ve been planning this all week, it’s supposed to be a big surprise.” Niall rolls his eyes fondly. “My money’s on peri peri chicken, I’d bet the SG on it.” Zayn smiles at him, happy for his friend. He grabs his jacket off the desk.  
  
“Oh hey, forgot to give you this,” Zayn says, grabbing his jacket off the desk and pulling the Full Metal Bog CD out of the inside pocket. “Saw this band last night, I think you’ll like it.”  
  
“Cheers,” Niall says, turning the album over to read the track listing. “Thank you.”  
  
“How is that Harry doing, anyway?” Zayn asks. Niall plays with the cellophane wrapping for a second, then breaks into a huge smile, the one that lights him up like bottled sunshine.  
  
“They’re good, really good. Like, we both don’t know what we’re doing so we’re just doing it, you know.” Zayn snickers. His phone buzzes in his pocket with an incoming text. It’s probably Safaa, trying to negotiate the terms of his surrender. He ignores it.  
  
“Figured ‘doing it’s’ a big part of the equation right now,” Zayn says. Niall flushes and pokes him in the chest; his phone buzzes again.  
  
“That, too, mate. ’S just, after everything - it’s just been easy. That’s all. Wasn’t expecting it to be so easy.” Zayn’s phone buzzes one more time; he finally pulls it out of his pocket to see three texts from Louis.  
  
_have food, b there in 10. BE READY._ [Sunglasses emoji]  
_what’s ur address btw_  
_wtf z pick up ur phone_  
  
“Watch it, Malik, you’re glowing.” Zayn smiles big; he can feel it stretching his face. He types out the studio’s address quickly. Niall hooks his chin over Zayn’s shoulder, trying to see the screen; he lifts it up to Niall’s face so he can read it. Niall reaches up to awkwardly pat at his cheek.  
  
“I’m so proud of you,” Niall sniffles. “It’s like me own son growing up.” Zayn shrugs him away without heat, turning to face him properly.  
  
“Good luck with your dinner date,” Zayn says. “Hope Harry shags your brains out.” He ropes Niall in for a proper squeeze, kissing him sloppily on the cheek.  
  
“Good luck with your Louis,” Niall says, pulling back and batting his eyelashes. “Gonna come down and wait for your man?”  
  
“In a minute. Just going to shut everything down up here.” Niall winks at him, then descends the stairs. Zayn putters around for exactly two minutes; picking things up, putting things down, trying to not seem like a complete nutter who sets his phone timer for exactly two minutes while waiting for his crush to arrive. Then he takes a deep breath and heads down the stairs.  
  
Liam’s leaning against the side of the front desk, looking down the hallway to the main studio, one headphone pressed up against his ear. Zayn sidles up next to him; Liam turns his head, butting his forehead gently against the side of Zayn’s face.  
  
“Have any luck with the song?” Liam asks. Zayn nods.  
  
“Yeah, we did, actually.” Zayn keeps his eyes on Liam and not the front door, grateful for the distraction.  
  
“That’s great!” Liam says, raising his fist; Zayn bumps their knuckles together.  
  
“Want to have a listen? I’d appreciate any feedback.” Zayn holds his breath; he really needs the distraction, feels like his bones are going to vibrate out of his body while he waits for Louis to arrive.  
  
“Sure. The film people are on a break, I’ve got a few minutes before they’ll need me again. If anyone pokes their head out, just give me a warning.” Zayn walks around the desk to pull up the song on Liam’s computer. Liam slides his other headphone on, gets in the zone. Liam listens earnestly, like he does everything; brows knitted together, fingers steepled against his mouth. Zayn tries hard not to watch him, but it’s a losing battle. He’s the best and worst to watch; he always stares right back, everything he thinks about the song flicking over his face. But Liam does genuinely seem into it, bobbing his head in time with the tune. Zayn actually sees it on his face when he hits the bridge - his mouth pops open and his eyes get wide.  
  
“Nice!” Liam says, giving him a thumbs-up.  
  
Then the front door swings open and there is Louis, hair askew, with a big bag of takeaway in his hands. He looks a little tentative, like he’s not sure he’s in the right place. From behind the desk, Zayn’s afraid Liam can hear his heart take off; it pounds in his chest like a herd of buffalo about to run right off a cliff.  
  
“Louis!” Liam says, taking off the headphones and beaming.  
  
“Payno!” Louis smiles and starts walking towards them. He holds out his free hand to Liam, who grasps it and pulls Louis into a half-hug. Zayn looks back and forth between the two of them, frozen in place; not sure what alternate universes of his life have suddenly been spliced together.  
  
“Wait,” Zayn says. “You two know each other?” He wills himself into motion, walking slowly out from behind the desk.  
  
“‘Course we do,” Liam says, clapping Louis on the back. “Tommo here coaches Bear’s football team.” He turns to Louis. “He’s so excited for the match tomorrow.”  
  
“Good lad, good lad,” says Louis, pushing his hair off his forehead. He looks at Zayn, “He’s wickedly fast.” Liam laughs, pleased.  
  
“He is a quick little bugger,” Liam agrees. “Now if we could just get him to run in one direction.”  
  
“The right direction,” Louis adds, shaking his head and nudging Liam. They laugh again. Zayn just watches them, worrying the ring on his index finger.  
  
“Didn’t know you worked here, Liam.” Louis says, side-stepping closer to Zayn.  
  
“Part owner, actually,” Liam says proudly. “What are you doing here, then? Not that you’re not welcome, of course.” Louis takes another sideways step, fetching up next to Zayn. Zayn checks the front of his shirt to make sure no one can see his heart beating through it. Louis smells good - a combination of cologne and detergent and tobacco.  
  
“Just here for this one, actually,” Louis says, bumping his shoulder against Zayn’s. Zayn bumps him back, gently. Down the hall, the door to the big studio clicks open; voices start wafting out into the lobby. Liam steps away from them, walking towards the voices.  
  
“Think my free time’s up,” he says. “Mind locking up if you’re heading out, Zayn?”  
  
“Will do. Good luck,” Zayn says.  
  
“Have a nice night,” Liam twists to wave at them. “See you in the a.m., Tommo.”  
  
Zayn turns the bolt on the front doors quickly; Louis is being quiet for once. He turns back to Louis. “Mind if we eat out back? There’s a nice garden,” Zayn says.  
  
“Sounds lovely.” He leads Louis down the little hall on the other side of the lobby, past the loo and the side entrance to the studio. Through the glass door, they can see the small group of people milling about inside. It looks like they brought snacks; Niall will be annoyed if they leave crumbs. Then he pushes open the back door of the studio, and they walk down a few steps into the back garden. He finally stops and turns to Louis.  
  
“Hi.” Zayn says. He stops fighting the smile that’s been threatening to split his face for the past five minutes.  
  
“Hi,” Louis says. “Long time no see.” He looks awfully amused, like he’s got a secret that he’s bursting to tell. They stand like idiots for a minute in the early spring evening. It’s cooling off fast now that the day is giving over to evening. Louis looks good: unshaven, comfortable and relaxed in his oversized sweatshirt and trackies.  
  
“You didn’t have to do...all this,” Zayn says, waving his hand towards the bag.  
  
“Who says it’s for you?” Louis raises his eyebrows, tipping his chin up slightly.  
  
“Fair point. Rude, though.”  
  
“Nice garden,” Louis says, ignoring him and walking across the small grassy yard. Louis stops at the table Niall has tucked by the vegetable planters that demarcate the back edge of the garden. He puts the bag down on it and starts pulling things out: napkins, plates, forks, a large styrofoam container.  
  
“Niall’s got a bit of a green thumb,” Zayn says, pulling up near Louis and watching him. Things keeps coming out of the bag: more containers, a flat foil package, two tall cans of lager.  
  
“Is that the other owner, then?” Louis asks, concentrating on his task. He pushes his sleeves off his hands and starts arranging the boxes on the table.  
  
“He is.” Zayn sits down on the hard wooden bench; Louis also sits and starts opening the various containers. Lemon rice. Chicken tikka, smells heavenly. Lamb vindaloo with ‘very spicy’ written next on the lid. Naan. A little stack of cucumbers. A small box of what looks like milk cake. For one awful second, Zayn is afraid that he’s going to tear up. Louis is carefully not looking at him, fussing with the plates and cutlery; all Zayn wants to do is crawl into his lap. “Louis, I...this is - “ he swallows, glancing over. Louis is still not looking at him. “Are you doing this just to get back at me for covering dinner last night?” Zayn asks, nudging him with his knee.  
  
“Partly,” Louis says, gathering up the loose lids and stacking them back inside the bag.  
  
“How much?” Zayn keeps bumping their knees together, knock knock knock.  
  
“Like 80%” Louis says, finally looking over at him. His mouth tilts up. “The other 20% was purely self-sacrificial, letting you benefit from the pleasure of my company.”  
  
“I accept your charity, then.” Zayn says, looking over the contents of the table. “There’s just…” He leans over Louis to poke through the mostly empty bag, sifting through the extra napkins and forks.  
  
“What?” Louis asks. “Is something missing?”  
  
“Looking for the tablecloth,” Zayn says. “Surely you've got one in here.” Louis pushes him off and starts scooping food onto his plate, unceremoniously.  
  
“Are you going to eat, or drag me all night in a weak attempt to cover what a sentimental prat you are?” Zayn drops the bag, swooping back over to kiss Louis on the cheek. He starts filling his own plate, inhaling deeply, before he can think too much about what he just did or how Louis is flushing, now, pink creeping slowly into his face. Focus.  
  
“Smells just like me mum’s. Where did you get this?” Zayn asks.  
  
“Monty’s,” Louis says, popping open one of the cans of lager and handing it to him, then cracking open his own. He raises his can toward Zayn; Zayn clinks their cans together.  
  
“Eid Mubarak,” Louis says solemnly, then ruins the effect when he asks, “Did I say that right?” Zayn blinks. Disbelief must be scrawled all over his face, because Louis keeps talking. “It’s called Google, lad,” Louis mimes typing on a phone. “Amazing what you can learn these days.”  
  
“Thank you,” Zayn says. He leans against Louis for a few seconds, hoping he’ll get a sense of how much this means to him without being too weird about it. He starts eating. The first bites of curry hit his mouth, warm and familiar, heating him up from the inside. He mentally sketches them in simple charcoal: two dark heads huddled over a table, sharing a meal. It’s hard to believe they’re almost strangers; impossible to think were almost always going to be strangers.  
  
“How is it?” Louis asks. “Didn’t know what you like, had to have a guess.”  
  
“It’s amazing, mate. Did you try any of the vindaloo?”  
  
“Not for me, too spicy.” He eyeballs the container skeptically, shaking his head.  
  
“It’s not that spicy. Live a little.” Louis sighs and stabs a bite out of the container, popping it in his mouth. He starts coughing almost immediately and reaches for his lager.  
  
“You fuck. Me bleeding mouth’s on fire,” Louis says, whacking Zayn with the back of his hand.  
  
“What,” Zayn says, “it’s not that hot, honestly.” He snags a piece of lamb, himself, making a show of eating it as slowly as possible. Louis sets a hand on his knee; he gets only half a second’s warning, the slightest icy brush on his neck, and all of a sudden his own mouth is burning. He swats Louis in the arm. “Quit it.” His tongue goes back to normal.  
  
“Now you know how I feel,” Louis says, smug.  
  
“Try the cucumber,” Zayn says. “It helps.” He picks up a slice of it and stuffs it in Louis’ mouth. Louis raises his eyebrows in surprise.  
  
“You’re right.” They eat for a few more minutes, arms brushing from time to time. Eventually, they both start slowing down, picking at what’s left. Zayn is pleasantly full, humming with spices and warm earthy naan.  
  
“Hang on,” Zayn gets his phone out, opening the camera app. “Come here,” he says, turning around on the bench so that his back is to the table. “Family tradition.” He hooks his free arm around Louis’ shoulder and reels him in; holds up his phone to a decent angle and snaps a picture them, heads tipped together, in front of the mostly-devoured spread.  
  
“Me hair's a mess,” Louis complains, running his fingers through his fringe. He’s smiling, though, and doesn’t move out from under Zayn’s arm.  
  
“I’m not taking it again.” Zayn sends it to his family’s group text. Then he opens his texts and shows Louis the picture he got earlier from Safaa. “See? We send these every big holiday that we can’t be together.” Zayn releases Louis and turns to face the table. Louis turns back as well; he fidgets with his sleeves for a moment, squinting into the garden.  
  
“Your turn,” Louis says, raising his eyebrows and taking a drink of his beer.  
  
“Sorry?” Zayn asks. Louis waves his hand at their surroundings.  
  
“How’d you end up working here? I told you mine, yesterday; now it’s your turn.”  
  
“Kind of a long story,” Zayn says, mentally sifting through the detritus of the last four years, trying to pull out the critical pieces. It’s kind of like shaking the hornet’s nest - what will come out, who will get stung?  
  
“Got nothing but time,” Louis picks up one of the milk cakes, evaluating it for a long moment.  
  
“Jesus, Louis, just eat it. It’s good,” Zayn says. Louis sniffs it, looking at Zayn dubiously, and takes a bite. His eyes actually flutter closed. “I met Niall at one of his own shows.”  
  
“He’s in a band?” Louis asks, around a mouthful of dessert.  
  
“Yeah. Gigi - that’s my ex - and I used to go to a lot of live shows when we moved here.” Zayn takes a drink, thinks back to that night. His memory of it is a total mess, lurching and bumping in spots. “Niall’s band is...eclectic, you’d say. The first time you hear them, it’s kind of like getting punched in the face by a laid-back farmer. They do this sort of punk/country fusion.”  
  
“OK?” Louis has finished his piece of milk cake and looks like he’s thinking about having another. Zayn reaches for his cigarettes. The flare of the lighter is bright in the darkening garden. He lights his own first, and then Louis’ as he continues.  
  
“You’ll get it when you see them. Niall was up there, belting out these big, loud songs. The crowd was insane. And then - no transition, no chat, no nothing, he went into the most delicate acoustic...tearjerker, like. A bloke was literally crying into his Guinness at the table next to us.”

“No shit?” Louis says. He looks impressed.

“He was probably Irish, but…” Zayn shrugs, blowing smoke up into the dusky sky. “I was pretty blasted and introduced myself as soon as their set was over.”

“Oh, no. Not my shy little Zaynifer,” Louis says, reaching over to pinch Zayn’s cheek.

“Oh, yes,” Zayn says, laughing and jerking his head away. “I bought the lot of them a round, and absolutely hung on Niall for the rest of the night. Gi was mortified. But Niall got my number and invited to me to come ‘round the next day.” He turns and sweeps his arm out towards the studio, the ember from his cigarette leaving a tiny trail in the air. “We started talking music, you know how that goes...eight hours later, we had a song and a half to show for it. When Gigi split, he took me in for a while. And from there, I just...never left, I guess.” Louis nods, dropping his cigarette butt into his empty can of lager.

“Not to be nosy, but,” he lifts his head to look over at Zayn, hands spinning the empty can. His shoulders are hunched slightly inside his oversized hoodie; every line of his body looks tentative. “You don’t have to tell if you don’t want -”  
  
“I don’t mind, actually.” And he doesn’t, really, although this is the most he’s talked about himself in a long time. Self-portrait of the artist as a cracked hourglass, words slipping out of his mouth like sand. Dropping his own cigarette butt into Louis’ can, he grabs a piece of milk cake for himself, stretching his legs out under the table. “Seems like a long time ago now. Gigi and I moved here almost exactly four years ago. We’d been together for ages, since we were kids. Then around two years ago she ended it, out of the blue. Had no idea it was coming.” The familiar sweetness of the cake fills his mouth, rich and comforting.  
  
“She wasn’t –“ Louis’ eyes get fierce for a minute, hands tightening around the empty can. Zayn shakes his head; it’s hard to explain something he still doesn’t completely understand himself.  
  
“No, mate, she’s a good person. Just thought she was too young to settle down, like. It was hard on both of us, but we’re not on bad terms or anything.”  
  
“Still friends, then?” Louis asks, looking down at his hands, slowly releasing his grip on the dented can.  
  
“Not really. I think she wanted that, but it was too hard, you know? After we split, it was pretty shit for a while. I thought about packing up and moving home. But then I realized I had to stay, to prove to my sisters…” He pauses, rubbing his thumb across his lower lip. “Dunno, bro, it sounds cheesy but I just didn’t want them to think that a relationship should control your whole life, like. So I stayed and kept on and then the illustration gigs really took off, and here I am.”  
  
Louis is quiet for a minute. “I get that. Having to push through something to set an example for your family.” He traces the condensation ring left from his lager can on the table. “When me mum died a few years ago, think it was having to be the big brother that really helped me finally pull my shit together.” Zayn rotates sideways to face Louis more fully.  
  
“Was that when you met Edie?” he asks, putting his hand on Louis’ forearm. It’s his turn to be tentative, now.  
  
“Yes, thank God.” Louis says. Then he shakes himself. “Christ, what a bunch of maudlin arseholes we are; no more sad talk tonight.”  
  
A flicker of movement across the garden catches Zayn’s attention. He nudges Louis, pointing back toward the studio. In the darkening evening, the glassed-in isolation booths that overhang the patio are lit up; the actors are clearly visible, although their faces are too far away to discern. Some of the crew has wandered out onto the patio, smoking and talking on their phones.  
  
“Watch, they’re still at it.” There are two actors, male and female, each tenanting one booth. They seem to be chatting between scenes, leaning against the glass booth walls, when they both straighten up at the same time. “We get a lot of voice-over and post-production work, here. It’s cool to see the process.”  
  
“What do you think they’re filming?” Louis asks. Zayn watches them for a moment, twisting the ring on his finger and not thinking about how warm Louis probably is right now, underneath his hoodie, what that spot behind his ear might feel like under his teeth. Focus.  
  
“Something sci-fi. She’s a scientist, but she’s been infected with an alien virus. She thinks it’s benevolent - symbiotic, like. How can something so beautiful be bad?” He tilts his head, studies the other actor. “He’s in love with her, but thinks she needs to be quarantined or left behind, abandoned in space. He knows the implications for greater mankind. They’re both afraid.” Louis watches for a few minutes, rapt.  
  
“No way mate, it’s clearly a period gangster piece. He’s been running around on her and she’s about to sell him out to his biggest enemy. Look.” He scoots closer to Zayn on the bench. If Zayn leaned over just a fraction, Louis’ mouth would brush against the shell of his ear. Zayn holds very still while Louis points at the woman talking. “She’s angry. Watch her hand gestures - short, clipped, controlled. But the rest of her body is completely still. Contained.” Louis cranes his neck to better see the other actor, and _justlikethat_ he’s in Zayn’s space, breath fanning across the sensitive tendons of his neck. “But he’s cowed. Look at how his shoulders are shrinking in, his gestures are ineffective, protective.” Louis moves away, straightening his shoulders in mimicry of the woman; it’s disappointing and relieving all at once. “Compare her posture - she’s standing tall, shoulders squared. She’s edged closer to him in the booth, right on top of her microphone - while he’s literally backed up into the corner of his.”  
  
“Think you may be a serial killer, after all.” Zayn says, impressed. Louis wrinkles his nose at him.  
  
“Studied drama, actually,” Louis says. “Similar, though.”  
  
It’s almost full night now: bats are wheeling overhead, night insects starting their tiny cacophonies. It’s probably time to go home; if Liam leaves before they do, he’ll never hear the end of it. Zayn starts gathering up the remains of their food, putting the plates and containers back in the bag they came from. Louis plays with the edges of his sleeves, staring off into a corner of the garden. He’s nerve-wrackingly quiet and Zayn’s not sure how to break it, if he can dive into that pool and come out still breathing. Zayn finally turns to look at him.  
  
“I know you’ve got a game in the morning, but -” Zayn stops, swallowing; in the failing light, Louis’ face is inscrutable. “Do you...want to come back to mine?” He wants to look away, but owes it to Louis to be brave. Louis looks up right away, smiling, and Zayn can breathe again.  
  
“On one condition.”  
  
“Yeah?” Zayn asks.  
  
“I want the true sleepover experience. Popcorn, pillow fights, hair curlers, all of it.”  
  
“Uh. May need to run by the Tesco, but I’m sure we can manage most of that.” Louis looks triumphant.  
  
“You’re an idiot,” Louis says, standing up. “Also, I thought you’d never ask. Literally, I was sitting here making up scenarios to try to get you to ask. Which was basically going to be me saying, ‘Repeat after me, Zayn -’”  
  
“I know it’s hard for you,” Zayn says, standing, “but try not to be so ridiculous. Just need to bin this.” He grabs the bag of garbage and goes to toss it in the big rubbish bin Niall keeps out back. If he walks steadily, he can control the sudden surge of nervousness arcing through him like current, a thin eel curling in his stomach.  
  
“How did you get here?” Zayn asks.  
  
“Flew, of course. Most efficient means of transportation, innit?”  
  
“I mean, did you drive or take the tube, wanker.” He leads Louis through the side garden to the front of the building, near the car park.  
  
“Tube, actually.”  
  
“Ok, then. I’m just a little bit of a walk that way,” Zayn points him down the pavement, “if you’re up for it.”  
  
“Do I have other options?” Louis asks.  
  
“Life is full of choices, Louis,” Zayn says. Louis pushes him away lightly, then reels him back in.  
  
“Lead on, Maczayn.”  
  
It’s a short walk to Zayn’s flat. The pavement is narrow and their arms brush from time to time; Zayn feels like a fucking teenager all over again, antsy and hopeful. Louis is a soft blur of light and dark; his white sweatshirt almost glows. The early night is full of other sounds: voices drifting from open windows, a laugh track bursting from someone’s telly, the hammering beat of his own urgent pulse. Louis clears his throat, pulling him out of his thoughts.  
  
“So are you and Niall…a thing?” He trails off, pushing his fringe off his forehead; Zayn sees the flash of his elbow out of the corner of his eyes.  
  
“Like, together? No, mate, he’s like my cousin. It’d be convenient, though; he’s one of the best people I know. And he’s fit.”  
  
“Oh. Just wasn’t sure, is all.”  
  
“And he’s got Harry, they’re a matched set.” Zayn avoids the puddle still left behind from last night’s rain. “More mismatched set, actually. Niall’s pretty chill, but if we were together - I think even he would question me bringing an unknown bloke back to my flat after dark on a Saturday night.”  
  
“Especially a wildly attractive teacher,” Louis agrees. “It’s only natural to question that. Animal magnetism, and all.”  
  
“Right. Exactly what I meant, as usual.” Zayn grabs Louis’ elbow to slow him down. “I’m just up here, this house on the right.” Zayn leads Louis around the back of the house. “I’m on the top floor, but I’ve got my own entrance.”  
  
Zayn’s flat takes up the entire converted second floor of an old house. When they turned it into a rental, the owner couldn’t be bothered to reconfigure the floor layout, so they tore out all the rooms and left it loft-style, with a few support beams. The living space is mostly dominated by a big drafting table and tiny music setup on the wall opposite the kitchen, with an acoustic guitar and keyboard. A futon and telly take up the middle of the room. The back of the room is sectioned off by a long canvas screen with a huge, curling dragon spray-painted down its length.  
  
“Spartan,” Louis says, surprised. “I pictured you with something a little more...arty, I guess.” Zayn shrugs, walking to the kitchen. He disappears into the refrigerator for a moment and emerges with two bottles of water and two bottles of beer, clutched precariously in both hands.  
  
“Niall helped me find it. The rent is cheap, landlady is great,” Zayn says, walking back to Louis. He offers Louis a bottle of each.  
  
“Cheers,” Louis says, accepting both. He takes a long drink of the water before setting it down; Zayn has two seconds to appreciate the smooth column of his throat. Focus.  
  
“I help her with stuff around the house and garden, and she doesn’t make a fuss about loud music or my lizard.” Zayn nods towards the aquarium set up in the corner. “It’s really just me and Arnie, mostly spend my time over there,” he points across the room with his elbow to the desk, then sets his own beer down on the high countertop bordering the kitchen.  
  
“Is this where the magic happens?” Louis asks, approaching the drafting table.  
  
“Guess so. I rent studio space for larger pieces and for painting, but I do a lot of sketching here.” Zayn walks over and shows him how the table lights up from underneath. Louis lays his free hand on top of the glass surface; the light shines through his skin.  
  
“Are you working on anything right now?”  
  
“Yeah,” Zayn says, opening one of the drawers and retrieving a sketchbook. “Amphibians this time, for a children’s book. It’s nice - there’s more...interpretation, like. I really get to create characters,” Zayn says, smoothing the cover of the sketchpad.  
  
“What’s the book about?” Louis asks, taking a drink of his beer.  
  
“A salamander that falls in love with a tadpole, actually. I’ve just got sketches for right now, but it will all be painted eventually.”  
  
“Do you mind if I…?” Louis taps the sketchbook, a question on his face.  
  
“Sure - just be careful with your drink, yeah?”  
  
“Right.” Louis takes the sketchbook, settling on the futon. He’s quiet, making little sounds as he looks through it, taking his time. Zayn can only see him in profile, head bent in concentration. It’s a simultaneously terrible and fizzy feeling, having Louis so immersed in something he’s made. To keep himself occupied, he sits at the drafting table. Setting his water on the floor, he pulls out clean paper to start a new sketch: simple rough pen, graphic novel style. And then Zayn draws them as superheroes: Louis dressed in tight black like some kind of slacker ninja, peeking around a corner, zapping the thief into dropping stolen jewelry. Zayn with a mask and a big magic ring and a starry cape, overcoming the villain with a wave of crippling self-doubt. He lets himself float away, get caught up in the drawing, adding tiny details: the glint on his ring, the sharp electric bolt leaping from Louis’ finger. He doesn’t hear Louis close the sketchbook or get up, but all of a sudden he is there, touching Zayn’s hand to get his attention. His neck has a little crick in it; how long has he been drawing?  
  
“Let me see,” Louis says, gently, moving Zayn’s hands away from the drawing. “This is sick. You just did this?” Zayn straightens up from where he’s curled over the table.  
  
“Yeah,” Zayn says. He’s a bit dazed, still trying to pull himself out of it.  
  
“Didn’t have talent show on the agenda for tonight, lad,” Louis says. “But I’m adaptable.” He takes a few steps over to the music area and lifts Zayn’s acoustic guitar from the stand. He strums it a few times, randomly, getting a feel for it. Then Louis launches into the beginning chords of Wonderwall.  
  
“Banned,” Zayn says. “Absolutely not.”  
  
“You’re no fun,” Louis says. He moves the capo to the first fret, switches the positions of his fingers, and starts strumming something else.  
  
“No,” Zayn says.  
  
“Overruled,” Louis interjects. “It’s the perfect singsong. Just need a campfire.” He plays a couple more chords, waiting for Zayn to begin the first verse. Zayn shakes his head in refusal; he wants to hear Louis sing. Louis shrugs, takes a breath, and starts up the verse himself.  
  
“Trudging slowly over wet sand,” Louis sings, staring right at him. His voice is fast and clear, sure, just the right amount of rough; his eyes are bright with laughter. Zayn’s whole stomach does a massive backflip. “Back to the bench where your clothes were stolen.” Louis gives him a pointed look and a pout, so Zayn grudgingly takes the next verse.  
  
“This is the coastal town,” he sings, pulling out his best Morrissey vibrato, “that they forgot to close down…” Louis’ eyebrows climb up his forehead, he makes an impressed face. “Armageddon -“  
  
It’s Zayn’s turn to be surprised when Louis swoops in with an achingly high harmony on the pre-chorus. For about fifteen seconds, they sound great together, like something clicking into place. It falls apart in the chorus; Louis cracks his voice on “silent and grey” in a spot-on impersonation and Zayn dissolves into laughter, which dissolves into a huge yawn.  
  
“None of that,” Louis says, strumming a few more chords before flattening his hands on the strings. “I was promised popcorn.”  
  
“Can do crisps, probably,” Zayn says, standing up and walking to the kitchen. He rummages in the cabinets for a minute, emerging triumphant with a bag of crisps. Grabbing his beer from the countertop, he waves Louis over to the futon. He puts his drink on the table as Louis sits, not bothering to leave any distance between them. Louis takes the sketchbook and sets it across their laps, opening the bag of crisps.  
  
“Tell me about these,” he says, pointing to the sketches and taking a drink.  
  
“Alright,” Zayn says. “If you want.”  
  
“I like listening to you talk,” Louis says, as straightforward as anything. He can feel Louis’ shrug right up against his own shoulder. At a complete loss for how to respond, he starts turning the pages, instead. The book is probably 50 sketches in all, beginning with random lifelike drawings of tadpoles and salamanders; then the pictures start to form the story.  
  
“The main characters are a frog and a salamander. They meet when they’re kids and fall in love when Tad is still a tadpole,” Zayn narrates, flipping to the next page. “But Tad is always worried, and puts off changing, not sure if Sal will still love them or how their other tadpole friends will feel once they turn into a frog.” He keeps turning pages, watching Tad play with Sal, struggling to keep their legs from forming and their tail from shrinking. “They can’t put it off forever, you know -”  
  
“Yeah,” Louis says, relaxing even further into Zayn’s side. “You never can, without being miserable.”  
  
“Right,” Zayn says, flashing a smile. “So one day Tad wakes up, fully a frog. It feels wonderful, like. The best they’ve felt in a long time, they finally fit in their own skin. They’re really scared to see Sal, though. So they hide for a while, under their lily pad...Eventually, Sal comes looking.” Louis lays his head on Zayn’s shoulder, and Zayn stills his hands on the pages for a moment.  
  
“Well, what happens?” Louis asks, sounding drowsy. “Don’t leave me hanging.”  
  
“Sal’s not sure who Tad is, at first. But Tad has the same eyes and spots as before, they’re the same playful, kind friend that Sal remembers - but better, happier. And Sal falls in love, all over again.” Louis yawns, hugely.  
  
“That’s lovely,” Louis says. “Will you show it to me when it’s all done?”  
  
“‘Course,” Zayn says. “If you want me to.” He looks down at the top of Louis’ head, still tipped on his shoulder. “You’re staying tonight, right? Can get you an Uber, otherwise.”  
  
“No, I’m staying, if that’s alright. Have to be up early, though.” Louis snuggles even further into him, as if sleep is imminent.  
  
“I can’t promise you a fancy breakfast, but...mi casa, su casa and that.” Zayn starts to gather himself to stand, which is difficult with Louis’ dead weight on his side. “Come on, Lou, you’ve got to get up.”  
  
“Don’t wanna,” Louis whines. “Comfy.” Zayn stands up all at once, heaving Louis off; absent his support beam, Louis flops onto his side on the futon. “Oi, not fair.” Zayn grabs his hands and pulls him to stand, giving him a little push to get going.  
  
“Loo is in there, shower’s right next door,” Zayn points to two doors in the wall, halfway between the kitchen and the screened-off sleeping area. “I’m not posh so there’s just the one,” he says, leading Louis back behind the screen. “Here’s the bedroom.” He pulls a shirt and sleep pants for Louis out of his dresser. “You may have to roll these up, but…” Louis summons enough energy to cuff him lightly.  
  
“Arsehole,” Louis says, taking the clothes.  
  
“You can change back here - won’t look, I promise. I’ll just change in the loo.” Zayn changes quickly, finding an extra toothbrush for Louis in the back of one of the vanity drawers and setting it on the counter. He takes his time walking back to the bedroom, turning off the lights, binning the empty beer bottles, getting clean towels out of the closet and laying them out for Louis in the morning. He stands outside the screen for a minute, listening for sounds - it’s completely quiet; he pokes his head around the corner. Louis has already crawled into bed, the same side as the night before.  
  
“This OK?” Louis asks. “I’ve set me phone alarm for tomorrow, sorry in advance if it wakes you.”  
  
“You won’t wake me up,” Zayn says, getting into bed himself.  
  
“I know,” Louis laughs quietly, rolling onto his side. His fringe has fallen across his forehead, into his eyes; Zayn’s fingers itch to push it out of the way. “Was just trying to be polite. You sleep like the dead.”  
  
“Text me after the match, ok?” Zayn asks, yawning again.  
  
“All right,” Louis says, tucking his hands by his face and closing his eyes.  
  
Zayn lays there for a while, waiting to fall asleep. He’s comfortable and warm, but his brain is running like a hamster wheel, squeak squeak thump, repeat. Louis is quiet, next to him; his breathing has evened out.  
  
“Stop it,” Louis says, without opening his eyes.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Your thinking is keeping me up.”  
  
“Soz. Can’t help it,” Zayn says. “It’s how I work.”  
  
“Let me just…” Louis reaches out and lightly touches his wrist. “ _Zap_ ,” he whispers. Zayn feels the small shock of ice on his neck, and then he’s out.

 

_**A Few Weeks Later** _

  
It’s late, somewhere past the middle of the night. Zayn’s up, working on a new project that pulled him out of sleep. It’s like that, sometimes, especially in the beginning; the art takes him in its teeth, worries and worries him until he capitulates. But in these in-between hours, everything is easier; the world is quiet. He soaks in it, lets his mind run loose like a wild dog. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Louis come out from behind the screen. He pads over to him in just his shorts; London’s in the middle of a miserable heat wave, the air lies thick around them like a wet skin, impossible to shed. Louis briefly touches his bare shoulder, hovering behind him as he looks down at the drafting table.  
  
“Too hot, couldn’t sleep. What are you working on, then?” Louis asks, yawning. Zayn loves his voice like this, low and raspy with sleep; tries to focus on his question and not the miles of his bare skin, soft in the dim light.  
  
Zayn gathers up the pages to show him; they are awkwardly long, longer than his usual horizontal pieces. “That thing I was telling you about.” The top page says, _"Obligatory Montage Sequence."_  
  
“Yessss, finally. My montage!” Louis gives a big sleepy smile, the unguarded kind that crinkles his face.  
  
Zayn lays the panels out in order. The lamplight adds a richness to the unfinished drawings; never has Zayn felt more like he’s peeling off a layer of his own skin. Louis inhales sharply and squashes Zayn in the chair so he can sit down.  
  
The first series of panels is simply captioned, _"Time Passes."_   It’s a whole page of just them, in sequence, a line of four neat square panels: Going for pints at Jono’s. Sneaking vegetables out of Niall’s garden for pasta primavera. Playing football in the park, Louis teaching him basic drills. Waking up in each other’s spaces.  
  
Below the small squares, there’s a larger rectangular panel dedicated to the day Louis binge-watched Good Food videos on youtube and insisted they spend all Sunday morning making tea sandwiches. Zayn’s drawn Louis with cucumber eyes and chunks of egg in his hair, stacks and stacks of sandwiches surrounding them. Louis’ flat smelled like smoked salmon for a long time afterwards. At the end, despite their best efforts, they had way too many to eat themselves; Zayn brought the rest into the studio and got teased mercilessly for days.  
  
“Mock me all you want,” Louis says, touching his cucumber eyes with a fingertip, “those sandwiches were incredible.”  
  
“Worth every minute,” Zayn agrees.  
  
The second series of panels is captioned, _“They Hone Their Skills.”_ Panel by panel, Zayn’s drawn them in their all their lame superhero majesty, starting with his own storyline - which mostly consists of Louis making him practice, over and over; he’s divided the page into three large panels.  
  
Panel one: A Wednesday night at Jono’s. Zayn extends the smallest tendril of sleepiness towards an obnoxious bloke two tables over, who is making his date miserable with a complete recitation of his extremely dull, procedural day at work. [ _I knew that formula would work,_ says his word bubble as his eyelids begin to droop, _vlookups were definitely the way to go, I said so from the_ …]  
  
“I remember that guy,” Louis says.  
  
“Hope so, mate, it was only two weeks ago.” Louis pinches his side, affronted.  
  
“More like three weeks ago, be realistic.”  
  
Panel two: Zayn and Louis are at the park, hiding behind a clump of shrubbery. Zayn is lobbing shimmering balls of radiant joy at random joggers [ _Moving targets_ , Louis insists], watching their arms pump faster, their feet lift higher as he makes contact.  
  
Panel three: The Saturday Louis makes him practice broadcasting further, pushing his range, all day. Zayn is so tired; he gets fed up and hits Louis with **I need to pee** from halfway across the park. His face is bright with the satisfaction of watching Louis run to the loo - knowing it was Zayn, having to do it anyway. Louis punches him hard in the arm with fierce pride, after. [ _You fucker,_ says his word bubble. _I’ll piss on you, next time, see you how you like it._ ]  
  
In real time, Louis punches him again for good measure. “I thought I was going to piss myself.”  
  
“Ouch,” he says, flipping to the next page. “Do you want to see the rest of this, or not?” Louis’ storyline is drawn in three large panels spanning the page.  
  
Panel one: They’re squared off at Zayn’s, arguing. Zayn has drawn Louis taller in his annoyance. Louis is insisting there’s no practical superhero application for his abilities. [ _Honestly, Zayn, being able to walk in a room and create chaos is a bit more criminal, really._ His word bubble is spikey, annoyed.] Zayn is insisting there is. [ _Don’t be more ridiculous than you have to be,_ comic Zayn says, poking Louis’ stomach, _you’re clearly not villain material_.]  
  
Panel two: The Friday they hatch the New Couple Experiment, which involves extensive reconnoitering to identify couples on first or second dates. They find their first experiment on the tube, sitting just in front of Louis and Zayn, tenderly holding hands, all shy smiles. [ _zap_ , Louis whispers, in tiny letters in his word bubble.] And suddenly the couple implodes in a spectacular row, something about whether fish have feelings, and if anyone should eat them. The girl wrenches her hand away [ _I don’t think we should see each other again_ ], changing seats while her date - and the passengers - looks on in helpless confusion.  
  
Panel three: Another Saturday at the park, creeping on a first date. Mid-coffee, one girl reaches over to wipe foam off the other’s lip - Zayn has drawn the little lighting flash from Louis’ finger - and then they’re kissing, latching onto each other. The girl with longer hair climbs onto the other, and they grind on the park bench, necking, scandalizing the pigeons. Zayn’s captured the dazzling happiness on their faces when they untangle a few minutes later, covered in each other’s lipstick, hair askew. The coffee spilled in the grass, forgotten. (Zayn laughed for days, he thinks; the _hahahahahaha_ he’s inked trails out of his mouth, stretches horizontally half the length of the page, outside of the panels.)  
  
Louis touches the last panel, tracing that drawn out laugh with his little finger. “That was a good day, Zayner,” he says. “They were a cute couple.” Zayn murmurs his assent, and flips the page; there’s nothing left.  
  
“This is brilliant,” Louis says, turning his head approximately one inch to look at Zayn, his face still soft with sleep.  
  
“Don’t get soppy. It’s too late; I can’t deal with it.” Louis pulls a face, starting to get annoyed - and then lets it go. Zayn watches the sharp retort die on his tongue.  
  
“Fair play,” Louis says, pushing off of Zayn and standing up. “Are you going back to sleep, or…” he yawns, waving his hand at the desk.  
  
“Think I’m just going to keep working for a bit,” Zayn says. “I’ll be quiet when I come in, promise.” Louis reaches out, messing up up his hair.  
  
“Even models need sleep, lad.” Louis says, walking back towards the bedroom. Once he’s back behind the screen, Zayn opens a drawer and pulls out the last page.  
  
The third series is titled, _"Satisfaction (I can’t get no)."_  
  
These drawings are quieter, more private; he’s used muted colors and long shadows. The page is divided into eight panels, equally-sized rectangles arranged with four on top and four below. And it’s all Louis, or mostly: everywhere, all the time, unavoidable.  
  
Panel one: Louis boiling noodles in the kitchen, topless, belting out Spice Girls.  
  
Panel two: Louis steering Zayn with his whole body when they’re tipsy, walking home, glassy eyed and handsy.  
  
Panel three: Louis leaning in so close, too close, breathing on Zayn’s neck while he’s drawing.  
  
Panel four: Louis dusting his flat, topless, when Zayn wanders in with groceries, flummoxed, tiny hearts for pupils in his eyes.  
  
In the four bottom panels, he’s drawn a series of himself, struggling to keep the hearts from escaping - they float out, he stuffs them back in, they float, he stuffs; like Tad, trying to forestall the inevitable.  
  
When he does make it back to bed, he lays awake for a long time before drifting off.  
  
*******  
  
Zayn’s in the beginning phase of possibly a nervous breakdown when the Acton Town station is announced. It’s been a hot and miserable thirty-eight stops and two train changes, start to finish, to close out what was an otherwise worthless day. He woke up too early, London still at the mercy of the stifling heat. Today was supposed to be Wolf Hamper’s final session; being in the temperature-controlled studio was the only good thing that came of it. Everything else was shit - something was up with the band, they could barely even look at each other, let alone play. Eventually, he kicked them out with promises of a free session for next week. Then there was a meeting at the publisher after tea to turn in his final paintings. Giving up the pictures was almost like losing a piece of himself, somehow; he hopes everything works out for Tad and Sal, knowing how even lovers can grow and change in ways that draw them apart. After Acton Town, it’s just two more stops to his station; just a quarter-hour walk from there to his flat; just seventy five steps from his door to his shower, where he can stand under the cool spray and pretend he’s someone else. He pulls out his phone out of habit; there’s a missed text from Louis from a little while ago.  
  
_Just got back. Pints???_  
  
He sighs, adjusting his plans.  
  
**Acton town. See u in a bit.**  
  
Louis is already at Jono’s by the time he arrives, chatting with a few people sat at a table back by the stage. Zayn doesn’t know them. He catches Louis’ eye and waves, then heads to the bar for a pint. Edie’s not working tonight, but the bartender on duty gets him his pint happily enough. He thanks her, and finds a table close to the door, directly under a ceiling fan. The breeze cools the sweat still clinging to the short hairs on the back of his neck; he closes his eyes for a moment, glad for one minute to be alone. His glass is wet against his fingertips, he wants to lick the condensation off of it, feel his tongue against something, afraid he might boil over if he doesn’t. He takes a drink, instead - the bitter hops and mellow malt ease his tight skin. His eyes find Louis again by instinct. He’s still in the back, talking with just one person, now; some fit blonde with curves for days. She’s touching his arm, head thrown back with laughter. Zayn tries desperately not to notice, but fails. If Louis is out to pull tonight, he’s not sure he can stomach it. Turning away, he focuses on his beer, tries to drum up the usual satisfaction of having another project completed. It’s no good; jealousy fills him like smoke twisting in a bottle.  
  
All of a sudden, Louis is right there, hovering behind him, pressing his whole front against Zayn’s back. He reaches over him and takes a big drink of his beer, sets it down carefully, and bites the side of his neck, all sharp teeth and a flash of tongue. Zayn feels the surge of lust well up, zinging like an arrow out of him so fast, before he can stop it, hitting Louis head on. There’s nothing he can do except close his eyes and wait for the horrible outcome.  
  
“Fucking _finally_ ,” Louis mutters into his ear. Zayn shudders under Louis’ hot breath, and then Louis is pushing him off of his stool, out of the pub, down the pavement; whispering filthy things in his ear, his hand hot on Zayn’s back under his vest. Something shorts out in Zayn’s brain, the last critical barrier between thinking and feeling. He yanks Louis’ hand out of his shirt, winding their fingers together so he can pull him faster down the sidewalk. He’s never been so glad it’s such a short walk to Louis’ flat. When Louis tries to key open the door with shaking hands, Zayn plasters himself against his back, snaking his hand up the front of his vest. He thumps his forehead against the door, fumbling the key again and groaning in frustration. Next door, the kebab guy claps and cheers; Zayn laughs against the back of Louis’ neck.  
  
“What’s wrong, Louis?” Zayn asks, lightly scratching his stomach, just to feel the way his breath gets ragged under his hands. “Can’t get it in?”  
  
“Fuck you, Zayn,” Louis says, pushing the door open at last.  
  
“All right,” Zayn says, still glued to his back, tangling their feet together as they trip up the stairs. He’s not sure how they make it through the door to Louis’ flat, but they burst through it in a wild knot of limbs. Then Zayn is pinning Louis to the entryway wall, pressing their hips together; Louis digs his fingers into Zayn’s hips, latching his mouth onto his neck. And it feels so good, god, the friction of their rolling hips, Louis sucking on his pulse like some vampire kitten, his hair thick under Zayn’s fingers. Louis hums against his throat, and then pulls off.  
  
“Can I kiss you?” Louis asks, voice rough already, pupils blown black. Zayn relaxes that internal firewall, hitting him with a big wave of _yesyesyes._ “Jesus,” Louis says, and then Zayn slants their mouths together. Louis pushes them off the wall, steering Zayn toward the bedroom, still halfways kissing. They hit the wall, hard; Louis’ teeth sink into his lower lip.  
  
“Ouch,” says Louis, rubbing his elbow, taking advantage of the momentary pause to strip his shirt off. “Up,” he says, tugging on the bottom of Zayn’s shirt; Zayn lifts his arms obligingly.  
  
“Ouch yourself,” Zayn says, rubbing up against him, biting his collar bone. Revelling in all that smooth skin under his own. “You’re such a hazard.” Louis grabs his hand and tows him into the bedroom; he gets stuck trying to wiggle out of his jeans and Zayn pushes him onto the bed, laughing when Louis pulls him down as well, drawing him in for a kiss.  
  
“Need some help?” Zayn asks, kissing his way down Louis’ body to pull his clothes off the rest of the way. Louis shivers under his mouth; the small sounds he’s making go straight to Zayn’s dick. He tries to clear his head; he can’t remember the last time he’s been so ready for it. He stops by Louis’ feet and gets his own kit off, looking up the long line of Louis’ body before he crawls back on top of him, nipping at his belly button.  
  
“Have you done this before?” Louis asks.  
  
“No, Lou, I’m a twenty-eight year old virgin,” he says, batting his eyes. “Will it hurt?” Louis pinches his side.  
  
“Not what I meant, love.” Zayn continues down, lowering his head right over the curve of Louis’ prick.  
  
“Have I ever sucked a dick?” he asks, mouth brushing directly over Louis’ cock as he talks. He licks a long stripe from base to tip, sucking a tiny kiss on the sensitive spot there. Louis whimpers, thrusting up. “No. Lucky we have the same parts, innit?”  
  
“I have to - you have to…” He moves helplessly under Zayn’s hands, inserting his own hand between Zayn’s mouth and his prick. “My mum always told me, before me knob could touch any part of a person - have to ask first, make sure.”  
  
“‘S not talk about your mum, please. Your knob is cleared to touch my parts,” Zayn says, grinding down against the sheets a little, needing relief. “Am I cleared to touch yours?”  
  
“Yes, god, please…” Louis groans, threading his hands in Zayn’s hair before tensing. “Wait, stop.” He pulls on Zayn’s hair a little. Zayn freezes.  
  
”Is it - are you...what.” Louis tugs on his shoulder; Zayn obligingly climbs back up.  
  
“Not like that, you idiot.” Zayn finally chances a look at him: lips red, eyes blown, hair in shambles, flushed all over, his his his.  
  
“It’s just...I just - ” Louis looks up at the ceiling, breathing hard. “I don’t want it to go too fast.” Louis shifts his eyes to stare right at him, unflinching, for a long few seconds, tracing a line down his arm. “You’re fucking beautiful, I don’t think you even know.” Zayn has to close his eyes, he thinks his stomach is digesting his heart. He knows he’s shaking, but doesn’t know how to stop; his blood is thundering through his ears, he can hear Louis’ low voice murmuring beneath it.  
  
“Open your eyes,” Louis is chanting, “open your eyes.” So he does, and gets the shock of his life: in the darkening bedroom, he is glowing, tiny firefly lights swirling below his skin. All the breath leaves his body.  
  
“Holy shit,” Zayn says, dropping down and wrapping his arms around Louis. His heart is beating overtime. Louis strokes his back for a minute, then nudges his head up off of his shoulder for a slow kiss, pressing his hips up against him. Zayn feels like he’s falling apart, emotionally wrecked, harder than he’s possibly ever been.  
  
“Want to try something,” Louis says. Zayn nods against his forehead. “Gonna do my thing.” He feels the familiar ice water trickle; he didn’t think it was possible, but his desire ratchets up another level. “Now you do yours.”  
  
“All right.” It feels good, all that big want flowing out of him and into Louis, who drops his mouth open and arches his back below him. The lights are moving from Zayn to Louis, Louis to Zayn, creating a mad feedback loop; it’s the most intense thing he’s ever experienced. “Fuck,” he breathes, dropping down for another kiss, grinding against Louis’ hip; Louis grinds right back.  
  
“Budge up,” Louis says, getting a hand between them to properly line up their cocks, then wraps his hand around them as best he can. They fall into a sloppy rhythm. Zayn’s not going to last, it’s already too good; the lights are arcing out of them now, building a shimmering dome around them, he tries to kiss Louis again but can only breathe into his mouth, hips getting erratic.  
  
“Louis, I…” he starts, dropping his mouth down into the space between his neck and his shoulder, licking the sweat gathered there.  
  
“Yeah,” Louis says, tensing all over. Then they’re shuddering together, the dome bursting, dissipating out into the universe.  
  
*******  
  
Zayn is woken up either by the sound of his phone going off repeatedly or Louis’ insistent shaking, he’s not quite sure. He knows it’s too early. Cracking an eye, he sees Louis’ face is right there, too close, sleepy and filled with suppressed laughter.  
  
“Oi, get your phone,” Louis says, flicking his nose. He groans and rolls over onto his face; his phone and whoever needs him can bloody wait.  
  
“What time is it?” His voice is like sandpaper.  
  
“It lives,” Louis says. Zayn feels the mattress heave and dip, then the soft thunk of something landing on the pillow next to his head. He cracks an eye open in time to see Louis disappearing into the loo, completely starkers; watches the light moving down his back and arse and legs. It’s a good day. Rolling over, he grabs his phone; he’s got approximately one thousand text messages from Niall, sent over the course of the last fifteen minutes.  
  
_where are u ?_  
_did u forget about me ?_  
_u better not still be sleeping_  
_zayn_  
_zayn_  
_ZAYN_  
_pick up your phone mate_  
_I know u r sleeping_  
_I know where u live_  
_I have trisha’s number . don’t think I won’t call her_  
_she likes me better_  
_I know your landlady ._  
_she likes me better too_  
  
Zayn blinks and weighs fulfilling his promise to help Niall in the studio this morning with laying in bed, drowsy and lazy, touching Louis’ slowly in the daylight, discovering what all that warm skin tastes like in the morning. He sighs and texts him back.  
  
**is there food?**  
  
_h is here . you fucker !_  
  
**should have led with that. b there soon.**  
  
_1 hour . or i will tell haz to chuck all the pastry_

  
“What’s the verdict?” Louis asks, reappearing and falling back onto the bed, too far away.  
  
”Promised Niall I’d be in first thing this morning.” Zayn yawns hugely, testing his limbs to see if they will work, yet. The prognosis is favorable.  
  
“Guess you have different ideas about what constitutes ‘first thing’.”  
  
“Piss off,” Zayn says, fondly, reaching out to run his fingers down Louis’ shoulder. “He’s stuck on a song, told him I’d help. You should come with.”  
  
“I should?” Louis asks, scooting closer, capturing Zayn’s hand and threading their fingers together. He looks pleased but nervous.  
  
“Would be nice, if you want. Plus you’ve got a good voice, might even put you to work.”  
  
“Do we have time to shower?” Zayn looks him up and down: stubbly, hair a mess, love bite on his shoulder. Thanks to their hasty clean up job from the night before, he’s sure they both reek of sweat and sex.  
  
“I’d say that’s a necessity rather than a priority.” Then he puts his hand on Louis’ face and leans in for a kiss. “This, too.”  
  
“Gross,” Louis says, against his lips, then licks into his mouth.  
  
“You’re gross,” Zayn says, pulling back after a long minute. He’s half-hard, and they’ve barely even touched. “C’mon, we’ve got to be there within the hour. Niall’s threatened me with pastry; he means business.” He drags Louis out of bed before things get out of hand. Louis starts the shower while Zayn has a piss and brushes his teeth in the loo next door. He steps into the shower a minute later, and his mouth dries up: Louis is standing with his eyes closed, face upturned to the spray, water sluicing all over his body. His heart makes another attempt to leap out of his chest.  
  
“Hey,” Zayn says, not wanting to startle him. Louis open his eyes and moves over to share the water. They soap each other up industriously for a minute before Zayn gets distracted. “You’re so fucking fit.” Zayn sighs, letting his fingers wander down Louis’ back, flexing into his backside. Faster than anyone should move in the shower, Louis pushes him up against the wall, out of the spray. The combination of Louis’ hot mouth on his neck and the cold tiles on his back makes him shiver all over. He grips Louis’ shoulders and spins them around, pressing Louis firmly to the wall before lowering himself, tiles digging into his knees. He scrapes his teeth over Louis’ hipbone. Louis groans, hard already.  
  
“Can you be quick?” Zayn asks, sucking a kiss against his thigh before taking Louis in his hand and pumping a few times.  
  
“Won’t be an issue,” Louis says a little breathlessly, thrusting into his grip.  
  
“You and your pickup lines,” Zayn says; and then his mouth is occupied. It’s not long until Louis starts tugging on his hair, thighs trembling.  
  
“Z, I’m -” Louis swells in his mouth; Zayn swallows what he can, wanking him through the rest. Then Louis is sliding down the wall to join him, kissing him slow and deep when he arrives.  
  
“You fucker, I wanted to do that first.” Louis says, tipping their foreheads together.  
  
“Selfish.”  
  
“I know. Jesus, this floor is hard.”  
  
“Speaking of hard,” Zayn thrusts against his hip, afraid he’s going to burst if he doesn’t get some contact. When Louis reaches down for his prick, he’s sure his eyes roll back in his head. It doesn’t take much until he’s there, biting down on Louis’ shoulder as he spills over his fist.  
  
“Shit.” Louis gives him a minute and then pulls him up; his legs are shaky but hold. They finish washing quickly; Louis turns off the tap and reaches for the towels.  
  
“Can dry you off,” Louis says, looking speculatively up and down his body.  
  
“Pastries on the line,” Zayn reminds him, grabbing the towel himself. In the bedroom, Louis hands him a pair of trackies and his old Green Day shirt.  
  
“Such a sop,” Zayn says, clutching the clothes and swooning. Louis reaches out to smack him, but Zayn catches his arm instead, pulling him in for a brief kiss that quickly turns complicated.  
  
“Who’s wasting time now?” Louis asks, pushing Zayn away and moving back. He keeps moving backwards until a few steps separate them. “Stay where you are, I can’t trust you.”  
  
They make it outside so fast it surprises even Zayn. It’s a lovely summer morning, for once; sunny again but not oppressive. They get to the tube station with ten minutes to spare before the next train arrives.  
  
“Maybe the bleeding heatwave is finally over,” Zayn says.  
  
“Let me check,” Louis says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Looks like,” he says, continuing to scroll. He looks up after a second, eyes huge. “Bloody hell, Zayn.” Louis grabs his arm, thrusting the phone into his face; he’s got the BBC News app open to a blurb titled _Sex Riot Strikes Ealing Common_. Zayn grabs the phone from him to read the snippet.  
  
_“Around 8:30 p.m. last night, in several instances across an estimated 400 m radius near the Ealing Common station, multiple witnesses cite seeing people - couples, friends, couples and their friends, even a few strangers - overcome with what has been described as a “lust wave,” getting off with whoever was convenient and similarly inclined. Have a story to share regarding your own experience? Contact BBC News at…”_  
  
“Fuck my fucking life,” Zayn says, dropping his head into his hands; he thinks his whole face might literally be on fire.  
  
“Eh,” Louis says, unembarrassed, “we just need to figure out how to control it.” He pries Zayn’s hands away from his face. “I’m sure it will be difficult but manageable, with enough practice.”  
  
“You’re so dumb,” Zayn says, pulling him closer. The train arrives before he can do something stupid, like lick Louis’ collarbone or run screaming at the top of his lungs. They get settled on the train, which is blessedly almost empty. Zayn’s thoughts surge faster than the train, regurgitating the news story over and over; he’s not sure he can keep everything contained. When did this become his life? Louis pokes him in the stomach, a welcome distraction.  
  
“You get five minutes to do that thing you do, then I’m cutting you off.”  
  
“That thing?”  
  
“You know, with your brain,” Louis says, twisting the hem of his shirt with his fingers. “Where you torture yourself about the tiny details of life, instead of living in the moment.”  
  
“We started a _sex riot_ , Louis,” Zayn whisper-shouts. Louis shifts in the seat next to him again, bouncing his leg. “That’s not -”  
  
“Tiny details,” Louis repeats, picking at the stitches, now. “Sounds like everyone who participated was willing.” His bouncing leg picks up speed.  
  
“All right?”  
  
“Wish I had time to shave this morning,” he says, running his fingers through his damp hair.  
  
“Are you...nervous?” Zayn asks, gently. Louis just looks at him. “Don’t be. You already know Liam. And you’ve got nothing to worry about with Niall and Harry - believe me, they’re way weirder than either you or I could ever hope to be.” He lays his hand on Louis’ knee, stilling his leg; Louis winds their fingers together and squeezes.  
  
The Ealing Broadway stop is announced. Zayn keeps Louis’ hand and half pulls him off the platform, crossing the road to Haven Green. This early in the morning, there are only a few people milling about, clutching paper coffee cups and market bags; it’s too early yet for snogging in the grass or love triangle dramatics.  
  
“Behave yourself,” Zayn says anyway. He stops at the Madelay crossing to light a smoke for both of them, deja vu running through him like a thread. Louis reaches out and touches exactly the spot on Zayn’s neck that he bit at Jono’s the night before; even the light touch there turns him to jelly.  
  
“What made you...like, why last night?” Zayn asks, handing him the cigarette.  
  
“Almost hate to tell you, love,” Louis says, exhaling and looking wistful. “But I think everyone in the bar got a blast of miserable jealousy when Jacinta touched me arm then.” Zayn covers his face with his arm.  
  
“Another place I can never go.” He imagines stepping into the pavement, sinking down into the cool depths of the earth. Maybe he’ll live there forever, emerging only once every seven months to visit Louis, like some strange mythological creature. Louis nudges him back into reality.  
  
“Everyone in the bar also knows how much I fancy you; been talking about it for ages, feels like. Figured I was finally ok to make a move.”  
  
“Could have done that weeks ago, to be honest,” Zayn says, circling Louis’ wrist with his fingers.  
  
“So could you have,” Louis says, affronted; he jerks his wrist away. Zayn smiles stupidly at him. “What?”  
  
“It’s cute when you’re nervous.” He looks at Louis’ mouth, shifting a little closer. “Wanna -”  
  
“Have at it then,” Louis says, tilting chin up like a dare. Zayn aims for a soft brush of lips, but Louis grabs the collar of his vest and hauls him in, kissing him with purpose before pulling away. “Be us making a scene this time.” Zayn blinks for a second to clear his brain, flicking his cigarette butt in the street.  
  
“You ready?” Zayn asks. “Studio’s just a little ways down Woodville.”  
  
“Been thinking,” Louis says, as they cross the street.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I’ve decided on my superhero name.” Zayn’s glad they’re in the middle of the road; hopefully Louis is focusing on traffic and safe crossing procedures, and not the look on his face.  
  
“I...didn’t know we were doing that?”  
  
“Of course we are,” Louis says. They reach the other side of Madelay without incident, starting the short walk down Woodville to the studio. “Don’t be daft. Anyway, from now on you can call me Catalust.”  
  
“Cata...lust.”  
  
“Not all the time. Just when we’re doing superhero things.” He looks at Zayn, finally, waggling his eyebrows.  
  
“Vetoed,” Zayn says, saved by their arrival at the studio. The ivy on the low wall bordering the pavement waves at him when he arrives, per usual; Zayn reaches out to give it a little pat. He lets them in the front door and locks up behind - all the lights are off in the main entryway, and the front desk is empty.  
  
“Is anyone here?” Louis asks.  
  
“Unless there’s a bigwig client, we keep the studio closed until noon on Saturday mornings. We usually use it to jam and work on our own shit.”  
  
They find Liam in the main studio, hunched over with laughter at the mixing board in the control room. He beams when he catches sight of them. Zayn makes a beeline for the box of pastries set up by the couch, Louis trailing behind him.  
  
“Sit down and enjoy the show, boys,” Liam says, waving towards the window into the live room. Niall and Harry are huddled around the piano, oblivious to their arrival; Harry’s at the bench while Niall hovers behind them. “Don’t worry, I’ve turned the mic off in here.” Zayn takes a huge bite of whatever it was that he picked, something flaky and filled with raspberries.  
  
Just then, Harry launches into a song Zayn’s never heard before. The piano intro sounds good, it’s catchy and upbeat; Harry starts the vocal line. They must not have lyrics yet, but Niall jumps in on harmony and they sound great together - even their nonsense words are in synch, winding around each other like bright snakes. It disintegrates when Harry changes tempo suddenly, throwing the whole thing out of whack. Niall groans and throws his hands in the air.  
  
“Harry,” Niall says quietly, in a voice of extreme strain. “We agreed on no tempo change.”  
  
“I know we said that, but…” Harry plays the same note, over and over, slowly.  
  
“But what?” Niall says, extremely clipped.  
  
“That was a stupid idea.” Harry shrugs, still facing the piano.  
  
“Well, thank you,” Niall says, “that’s the most helpful thing you’ve said all day. Cheers.”  
  
“Should we give them a minute?” Louis asks, uncertain. Zayn hands him a pastry, unconcerned.  
  
“Not to worry,” Liam says, shaking his head. “In about -”  
  
“Five seconds,” Zayn says, “one of them will do something dumb -”  
  
“- and the other one will think it’s hilarious,” Liam finishes, looking at his watch. On the other side of the glass, the bickering is ratcheting up another level. Niall’s hands are waving everywhere, like he’s conducting orchestra, and Harry has finally turned around to face him.  
  
“You know what?” Harry asks, pushing their hair back and looking cross.  
  
“No, Harry, I don’t - since I’m not _a bloody mind reader_.” Harry stares at him for a couple of seconds, completely silent, then turns back to the piano; positioning their hands carefully on the keys, they start a new song - this one Zayn knows.  
  
“Sweet wonderful you…”  
  
Niall throws his head back and laughs, and starts singing along.  
  
Then Harry sees them through the glass and lights up; they stop playing and stand, pushing Niall towards the door between the two rooms. Zayn’s suddenly keyed up about the most important parts of his life colliding - it’s kind of momentous and he’s pretty sure he has raspberry filling on his face. Niall gets out of the live room first.  
  
“You must be Louis,” he says, holding out his hand and starting to pull Louis in for the full body hug experience. Something hiccups; Louis yelps and pulls his hand away; it’s streaked red with what looks like sunburn.  
  
“Oh, _shit_ ,” Louis says, shaking his hand. Zayn has no idea what’s happening. He looks at Niall, who looks at Harry; Harry looks at Liam, who is looking back at Niall.  
  
“About that…” Niall says, flushing and rubbing the back of his neck. And that’s really where the story starts.

 

 

Notes:

[tumblr post](https://dinoflangellate.tumblr.com/post/172180212553/all-the-stars-were-crashing-sarcangel-one)

 


End file.
